


White Lies

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Decepticon Justice Division - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-30 03:19:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Decepticon goes in for a job interview, and nobody is telling the truth.  But who doesn’t tell a few white lies now and then?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pt. 1

A Decepticon goes in for a job interview, and nobody is telling the truth. But who doesn’t tell a few white lies now and then?

 **Title:** White Lies  
**Warning:** Yet another AU where the Decepticons didn’t win the war. There were no last stands. There were no martyrs or hidden rebel cells. There was only defeat and trying to live in the aftermath. Possible dubcon situations. Obviously, the D.J.D. reveal in MTMTE futzed everything in this fic up, so as of 9/14/16 I’m taking down the parts to edit and rewrite to align with canon. Also in the hopes of continuing past where the divergence stopped me.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Continuity:** More Than Meets The Eye AU, G1 influence.  
**Characters:** Decepticon Justice Division, Jazz, Swerve, Pharma.  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** There was a beautiful picture by FelixFellow, and then I had an idea. It mutated. TwistyRocks got me to write the first part, just to see what happened. Due to the need to write poverty-level Cybertron, I had to make up monetary amounts less than a shanix.  
Shanix  
hanix (half a shanix)  
quanix (quarter shanix)  
einix (eighth of a shanix)  
nix (eight to an einix, sixteen to a quanix, 32 to a hanix, 64 to a shanix)

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Pt. 1: Desperate times call for desperate measures.**  
**[* * * * *]**

“Well, spin my tires and call me a Praxian. If it ain’t Tarn.” Charismatic and charming as only a born killer could be, Jazz flashed his notoriously cheerful, sinister smile, and Tarn’s whole world froze. “You wanna explain why the head of the Decepticon Justice Division’s standing in front of me?” 

Targeting systems spun up on automatic, but fast on the heels of murderous hate ran suppression programming. Kaon had chipped the whole unit, painstakingly installing the software in each of them. The chips couldn’t stop actual action, but the point was to buy time. The tiny devices disrupted instinctive violence, hopefully only burning out after suppressing reaction long enough for rational thought to catch up and begin disarming tempers and weapons systems on its own. Hitting first and thinking later was a luxury of war, and the war was over. 

The chips were training wheels to reteach them how to avoid confrontation, regain control, and back off. Calming down and keeping their heads cool under pressure had to become second nature, as it had been for them back before the war brought out the resentment and aggression buried in the lower classes As it had to be again, now that they’d been put back in their place.

Tarn fought to unclench his fists and relax his treads. Jazz, like him, could make a threat out of the most genial of statements, but the Autobot could back those threats up. Tarn couldn’t. Not anymore. He might be the larger mech here, but he wouldn’t bet on Jazz being unarmed, and the law would certainly slam down full-force on Tarn’s head even if he won the fight. He couldn’t afford to draw attention like that. His _unit_ couldn’t afford the attention. 

Vent in, vent out, and _submit_. 

He forced himself to step forward with his employment application extended, voice low instead of a purred threat. “I’m not the head of the D.J.D.,” he said, omitting the _‘…anymore’_ they both knew belonged at the end of the statement. Keeping the bitterness out of his voice hurt his throat. Humility tasted worse than the dreg-swill that was all Tesarus and Helex’s combined wages could afford to buy. “I’m just a mech looking for work. I was told there might be a job here for me.” 

Specifically for him, and Tarn cursed Soundwave’s round-about method of informing him of it. There hadn’t been much information to go on, just an address and a snippet of text on why Tarn would be the best candidate to apply, and it wasn’t as though he really had the time or resources anymore to research a job tip. Wasn’t that the point of Soundwave sending him here? Tarn’s unit had nothing left, and he was desperate enough to apply for the job despite recognizing the address. 

This area rode the edge of squalor: sub-level eight in the down-east quadrant of Iacon, close enough to the new Senate Pavilion to count as fashionably slumming instead of as a slum. Maccadam’s Old Oil House was within driving distance, which made sense of what he’d heard of this club. Supposedly, it was Blurr’s new venture, a more nightclub side of his popular low-key bar. Tarn had taken one look at the neon travesty calling itself a club and known exactly what it was, no matter what the advertisements and the bright sign claimed, and yet he’d still work here if they would stoop to hiring a Decepticon. 

The fact he’d knocked on the door told everything there was to know about the Justice Division’s financial situation. He simply wished Soundwave had included even a hint of warning before one of the few in either faction who knew his life and history, who recognized him despite the changes to his face and frame, opened the door to smile as though Tarn had spared him the effort of tracking him down. The mark had delivered himself to the assassin. How convenient.

Jazz leaned in the doorway and didn’t move. He could stay there all night, his cocksure smile told Tarn, but the way he watched Tarn belied the casual pose. The Autobot saboteur was alert and ready to finish whatever fight the tankformer started. 

Tarn waited under that scrutiny, offering no threat whatsoever. The only thing he offered was the job application in his hand. He had nowhere else to go. He needed this job. On this post-war Cybertron, economic depression wasn’t what kept him from finding work. Employment was easy enough to find if a mech had been on the winning side. 

Long story short, the Decepticons hadn’t won. 

Short story slightly longer, Optimus Prime had utilized loyalty and resources better than Megatron had. The first five cities fell to the Decepticons. The Battle of Sherma Bridge happened. After that, however, the war went rapidly downhill as Shockwave and Overlord turned traitor, perhaps one because of the other, but nobody would ever know. They’d died or been quietly disposed of before any questions could be asked, although how one disposed of Overlord quietly was a mystery. A somewhat frightening one, at that. 

Black Shadow followed in Overlord’s traitorous footsteps in exchange for amnesty. His defection had been highly publicized, as he took an entire unit of Decepticons with him when he decided to fight for the winning side, i.e. the side that paid better. They destroyed a Warworld just to prove the deal sealed once the check cleared, and then the Autobots had their own supersoldier-led mercenary company willing to decimate armies. 

Things had been sliding downward for the Decepticons prior to that, but losing one of their top officers and _two_ Warrior Elite to the Autobots snapped the support beams. People got reckless. Too many chances on the battlefield caused casualties or capture instead of victory. Starscream took a shot in the back by his own trine. Thundercracker escaped in the chaos and went missing, presumably off-planet or dead. Far too many of the officers either followed his example -- out of honor or treachery hardly mattered -- or ended up following Starscream’s.

Everything built to an inevitable crescendo, a last confrontation where Decepticons and Autobots clashed but were there as witnesses rather than combatants. They watched Megatron meet Optimus Prime in battle one last time, and only one could stand. One had to fall. 

It wasn’t the Prime.

The Empire died with Megatron. Its death throes could have stretched out agonizingly long, tearing Cybertron apart further as diehard Decepticons fought to the bitter end, but Soundwave evaluated the situation. He apparently decided the odds were against him and quietly disappeared into Cybertron’s vast underground. His complex communication network, stabilizing influence, and vast database of information vanished overnight. His desertion rang the faction’s death knell.

Without Soundwave holding the Decepticons together behind the scenes, no one among the Decepticons could amass enough power to take leadership, but it was more than simply a loss of leadership. People were tired of fighting, and winning no longer seemed possible. Megatron had been their motivation, and Soundwave had been their organization. Losing both of them lost the Decepticons the war long before it was officially over. 

When the Autobots brought the hammer down in an offensive push to retake lost ground, that was it. The Decepticons retreated, confused and devastated, too concerned with infighting to unite against the Autobots storming their defenses. Whole outposts began surrendering. Darkmount, last stronghold of the faction, lasted a siege of six months before finally opening her gates to the Prime’s negotiator. The terms of surrender were harsh but fair considering the alternative was outright execution. 

That was the end of the war story.

Therein began the actual tale, because life didn’t stop after the war did. The tattered remnants of the Senate weren’t inclined to be merciful, nor were the neutrals who hadn’t taken sides. Those still outnumbered Autobots and Decepticons alike. They resented both factions, but at least the Autobots were considered heroes. 

Optimus Prime fought to keep the bedraggled Decepticon ranks from permanent incarceration or sentences of hard labor. As hard as he fought, however, he couldn’t prevent the Brand Law from passing. He believed in equality, but most of Cybertron had been too ravaged by civil war to extend forgiveness to the faction blamed for destroying its cities and people.

Truth be told, the Autobot ranks put a lot of pressure on him to let the law pass. The Autobots kept their emblems as signs of pride and heroism, wearing it in honor of those who died to keep Cybertron free from Megatron’s tyranny. It was a mark of defiance, as well. _They_ had been the ones to fight, not the neutrals. The neutrals had fled, and the Autobots tended to boast loudest around the neutrals who complained the loudest. Yeah, well, how much of a planet would the neutrals have had to come back to if the Autobots hadn’t won it back, huh? 

By the Brand Law, former freedom fighters, revolutionaries, or whatever label they’d called themselves weren’t allowed to _remove_ their badges. Their wartime loyalties followed them into the aftermath. The Autobot registry was publicly posted as a hero’s rolecall, and Autobots nodded to each other wherever they met in recognition of shared history.

On the other hand, the Decepticon emblem became a mark of the losing side, punishment via a permanent sign of shame. Their registry was a public list of criminals, compiled from the surrendered ranks and soldiers brought in by bounty hunters, starvation, or despair. It made getting a job after the war difficult. Even if an employer was willing to overlook a purple brand, there was the issue of altmodes and armament. 

Tarn considered it a minor triumph amidst total defeat that the Functionalist Council had lost so much power. With the Senate reduced to an advising body to the Prime, prejudice lingered but job mobility was marginally easier than it had been before the war. The problem was that the lower classes had started the war without money and hadn’t gotten any richer while fighting. They’d spent all their money on upgrades to adapt their altmodes to war, and on post-war Cybertron, those who couldn’t buy a downgrade found their applications rejected by anything but the most menial of jobs. 

Nobody wanted to hire soldiers. Doubly so if the soldiers wore a purple badge.

Even if a Decepticon managed to find a job, holding onto it didn’t necessarily follow. The Constructicons, as talented as they were now notorious, had been harassed out of a series of construction projects by Autobots and vengeful neutrals. The Constructicons themselves kept their heads down and endured the abuse, but their contractors couldn’t handle the negative press. As soon as they were hired, they were fired. The Office of the Prime had finally intervened, likely at a petition from the Constructicons after their last legal battle over retaining the architectural designs from their brief periods of employment. The combiner team now worked directly for the government. Mechs still protested outside of their worksites.

Most of the Decepticons didn’t have the option of petitioning for government intervention. The former Decepticon Justice Division certainly didn’t. They were lucky to have evaded war crime trials, honestly. The things they’d done to fellow Decepticons would have gotten anyone else thrown into prison for the rest of their natural lives. Their actions escaped notice only through some truly fortunate timing. 

The D.J.D. had only briefly been an actual unit. The five soldiers hand-picked to fill the roster had served as Megatron’s secret police for years already, but they had finally been scheduled to emerge from the shadows as the faction’s visible, violent means of internal justice. Due to the sudden downturn in the war effort, however, the formal ceremony had been postponed. Then Megatron fell, and it was canceled.

More accurately, it was forgotten in the chaos. Which was good, as Kaon had done everything he could to erase the fact that the unit existed. He’d spent the frantic hours leading to Darkmount’s surrender deleting personnel files and editing entries, burying everything he could hack into. The tenuous connection between the new Decepticon Justice Division and past broadcasts showing what happened to those who defied Megatron’s rule was carefully pared away through planted hints here, a name dropped there. Other loyalists, different Decepticons, past histories that never existed but could stand up to passing scrutiny; Kaon had made the unit disappear into plain sight. 

Rumors about Megatron’s secret police had featured fearsome, nameless mechs. Word had begun to spread as the upcoming announcement leaked, but the Decepticon ranks in general had nothing concrete to go on. The List executions had always been ugly, grainy vidfiles that obscured the mechs doing the torturing. Despite the sting to their loyalty and pride, the D.J.D. were grateful for that anonymity now. It allowed them to fade away without having ever truly emerged into the spotlight. 

As for those Decepticons who knew about them -- surviving witnesses, subordinates, or soldiers from former units -- the unit had taken what steps they could.

Megatron had renamed his five most loyal followers after the first fallen cities but hadn’t lived long enough to formally announce the change. They had registered under those names with the new Autobot-led government. It was the sole protection their Lord could give them on this new Cybertron, and that shelter, frail as it was, was needed. It allowed them to survive in this post-war world. 

Once Tarn had been talked into it, of course. Kaon, Vos, Helex, and Tesarus had pulled together as a unit to determinedly badger him into reluctant agreement. He hadn’t wanted to surrender. Lord Megatron had been defeated. He’d planned to honor his Lord in a last blaze of glory, dying a true believer in the Cause, but his unit was more practical than him. They were less inclined to poetic soliloquy and drama. Survival was a humiliating option, but it made sense to them.

“Do you want us to die?” Helex had demanded harshly in the dark corner of Darkmount they’d dragged Tarn to. “You suicide by Autobot, and everybody’s going to wonder why. You’re too well-known to go out quietly, and we don’t deserve to die just ‘cause you can’t process reality!”

Ouch. Blunt but true. Spelling it out made it clear he’d been taking the easy way out. Tarn had been the one to look away, unable to answer with anything rational and unable to keep up the pretense now that Helex had ripped it away. 

He hadn’t wanted to face the aftermath. Fine. But duty of care to his unit, officially recognized or not, meant he had to tighten his bolts and do it anyway. That was part of being a Decepticon officer, even that was synonymous with _’disgraced loser’_ these days.

So he’d done what he had to ensure their survival. He’d quietly sent Kaon to erase their existence from Darkmount’s computers. He’d just as quietly rid the unit of a rather incriminating memento, shutting Kaon’s favored Pet into Helex’s smelter while the blind mech was absent. Kaon still hadn’t forgiven Tarn that, but getting rid of Vos’ predecessor had to be done before the Autobots discovered what had become of their undercover agent. Besides, none of them had had time for grudges since Darkmount. Lingering resentment aside, Kaon had no choice but to rely on Tarn and vice versa.

The D.J.D. had paid a heavy price to fit in among the common genericons. Vos had slipped away on the night of Darkmount’s surrender to one of the battleground scavengers, trading the unit’s pooled shanix for salvaged corpse-parts to modify their more recognizable features. The last of their funds paid a bribe to one of the butchers the Medic Corps. had kicked out of their ranks, and Tesarus’ optics had become a distinctive but completely new X-shaped structure. Vos’ mask welded on as if it wasn’t designed to come off. Kaon flinched and yelped his way through crude surgery to remove the restraints from his altmode. Tarn’s striking altmode kibble tucked in, the treads doubling up on his shoulders to make him broader and, in his opinion, giving him the appearance of a brute-force grunt. 

Since the point was to remove him as far as possible from the elegant, genteel countenance he’d cultured as Commandant of the Grindcore prison, he counted it a success. He hated the changes, but they allowed him to blend into the general population. Any surviving Autobot P.O.W.s would have recognized him by the graceful drape of his treads. Now he could shrug off accusations by pointing out that obviously he had the same altmode but of course he couldn’t be Commandant Glitch, the Commandant had died, didn’t everyone know that? Went down with Megatron, he’d heard. Anyway, Tarn hadn’t even been stationed near Grindcore, and look, he had a markedly different silhouette, see that? Just a case of mistaken identification! It happened in big cities, no big deal, have a nice day. 

His mask didn’t help him keep a low profile, but he didn’t dare take it off. Revealing his face was more of a risk than mere unwanted attention, hostile though it often was. The Senate had taken Damus’ face away via empurata, and Lobe had reversed the process on Glitch. Glitch had then died, according to the personnel files Kaon had doctored, but Tarn was well-aware of how flimsy that cover story was. Any cause for investigation would be damning, and the sight of a dead mech out on the streets would definitely make someone curious. The people he’d turned his back on to take up the Decepticon Cause would hunt him down relentlessly if they knew Damus, a.k.a. Glitch, a.k.a. Tarn was still alive. 

Hence the mask.

However, wearing a giant Decepticon emblem as a mask had done him no favors whatsoever in this post-war world. Decepticons carried a stigma after the war, one that they couldn’t shed. The Brand Law marked them visibly, and the faction registry was the first thing employers checked in a standard background check. The average Decepticon in Iacon couldn’t keep a job to save his life, much less support himself on what pittance he might earn from short-term employment. It was the dead-end situation filling the government-subsidized slums of Iacon to the brim with desperate people.

Despite the odds, Tesarus and Helex had managed to find work at a recycling plant on the edge of the city. On busy cycles they could handle enough garbage to scrape by. The unit drank dreg-swill and the two titans were always exhausted, but it was better than unemployment, as Tarn could attest from personal experience. Holding onto a job had become a nightmare of constant failure. 

It’d been three weeks, two days, and ten hours since he’d been fired from his last position for _‘intimidating other workers.’_ Sounded fairly scary and Decepticon-y, right? Too bad it hadn’t been what he’d wanted at all. In fact, it was pretty much the exact opposite of what he’d been trying for. He’d accomplished this frightening act simply by standing up too quickly. Because he was kind of big. And he loomed. After years as an officer, he exuded authority, too. It just happened. 

Intimidation wasn’t something he had to try to do. Trying _not_ to do it took effort.

Besides, being smaller and inherently nicer didn’t equate to job security. After all, it’d been three weeks, five days, and six hours since Kaon had failed a job evaluation, and Kaon was tall but not necessarily intimidating within his job field. Electricians and communication specialists came covered in strange electrical mods. The dismissal had cited his missing optics as the reason for _‘deemed unsuitable for this position; let go with regret.’_

It was a transparent excuse. The connection company had changed the position requirements once customers in the upper levels complained about a Decepticon doing work on their buildings. It was so blatantly unfair that a discrimination lawsuit should have been filed, but it wasn’t a threat the company took seriously. Why should it? Kaon couldn’t possibly afford a lawyer, and even if he could, no reputable lawyer would take a Decepticon client.

Both he and Tarn had swallowed their pride and appealed the dismissals in person, humbly requesting meetings with management in a last-ditch attempt to show they were willing to do anything to keep their jobs. 

Tarn didn’t have any more luck with his appeal than Kaon did. “It’s not just your aggression toward your coworkers,” his supervisor had explained, looking nervously at the desk in front of him instead of at Tarn’s stark purple mask. “You’re just...out of place at a call center, don’t you think? You’re just not, uh. I mean.” He made an awkward gesture at in the cannons that, stripped to the bare mechanisms, still lay down Tarn’s forearm. 

A central part of his altmode, he couldn’t remove them for long without consequences. Even politely pointed anywhere but at the people around him, they were so blasted _present_. 

“You’re just not fitting into the image we like to project,” the mech had finished after dithering for a while.

Tarn had refrained from explaining, yet again, that he hadn’t been aggressive, or that call centers like this were known by their customer service audio commcalls, not vidcalls. There had been no point in degrading himself any lower. The decision had already been made. He’d nodded silent acceptance and left to pack up his cubicle, noting the call center as yet another failure. 

Like Kaon, he had a track record that showed a slow downward spiral into drudge labor. Length of employment -- pitifully short -- as well as reason for employment termination were permanently entered on his job record, readily available on the public datanet. Every dismissal meant the next job could pay him less, if he was considered at all. Every reason listed meant his next manager would be ready to assume the worst from the very beginning, and he couldn’t blame them. His job history read like a criminal record. 

_‘Intimidating other workers.’_ i.e., existing with intent to work.  
_‘Suspected of petty theft.’_ Eh-heh…yeah, that one had an explanation, but not one he’d wanted to give his employer at the time.  
_‘Promoted threatening atmosphere.’_ In other words, polite small-talk with his coworkers hadn’t gone over so well.  
_‘Uncooperative with authority figures.’_ Teach him to volunteer a suggestion in person ever again.

Almost everything on the list had been unintentional, if not a total fabrication of his coworkers’ imaginations. Thankfully, the one dismissal he’d actually earned hadn’t ended in prosecution. Being labeled a suspected thief was bad enough; getting arrested for stealing office supplies would have been mortifying. The theft itself wasn’t something Tarn was proud of, but it’d been necessary. The entire unit had been out of work that week. Selling bits and pieces of office equipment had kept their tanks from draining dry until Helex and Tesarus got the recycling job. 

He never told the others where he’d found money. He didn’t want them viewing him in that sort of light. They were his _unit_. He’d sacrifice his pride for them if they were out of sight, but he’d smelt himself to maintain the sad illusion of command when standing in front of them.

All of which brought him here tonight, hoping for a job. Any job. The D.J.D. needed money badly, and for more than just escaping their current financial sinkhole. Kaon had somehow transferred all of Forestock’s science degrees to Vos’ personnel file, giving him enough pre-existing education to teach in the newly re-opened Academies. However, nobody would fund a Decepticon scientist, not anytime soon, and a science professor who couldn’t get grants taught for free. On the other hand, linguistics professors specializing in Primal Vernacular were scarce enough that he could _easily_ pick up classes and extracurricular work. If, that was, he got the teaching certification required to apply for faculty jobs at the Academies. Meaning that he had to pay the fee to take the test. 

Vos was back at the apartment now, studying NeoCybex against every purist line of code he ran. He was a bundle of raw nerves cramming for the test in another language. Helex and Tesarus both worked double shifts today. They couldn’t take any more shifts without collapsing, but they were doing the best they could to bring in even a fraction more shanix. Kaon was out scrounging the neighborhood two sublevels up for recyclables to sell. He’d said this morning he had a lead on a temp job fixing someone’s home office network reception, but Tarn was glad the mech had gotten out of the apartment at all. Kaon had become increasingly depressed by their situation, and anything that stirred his listlessness was an improvement.

Tarn himself hadn’t told anyone where he was heading today. All he’d said was that Soundwave might have found him employment. Emphasis on the _‘might,’_ so as to avoid getting anyone’s hopes up. A lot of employment opportunities hadn’t panned out. 

But he kept applying. He’d beg, borrow, or steal the credits to buy Vos’ entry into the teaching examination, if that’s what it’d take. 

It might. He was outside a nightclub that was likely no more than a front for a house of ill-repute, holding his application out to an Autobot who ground his pride under one wheel simply by standing there. As neutral as he could force himself, he met Jazz’s visor. “I was told there was a job waiting for me here,” he repeated when Jazz did nothing. 

He hadn’t been told what kind of job, but he knew. He’d never quite sunk this low before the war, but times changed. Not liking it wasn’t an excuse for not applying. Except for the overuse of neon, at least the place looked clean. And Blurr hadn’t maligned the Maccadam Old Oil House trademark too badly since taking over. Any nightclub spin-off had to have some sort of class. Right?

Jazz pushed off the door frame and swept a look over him, deliberate as a weapons-check. “Yeah. Yeah, seems we got a contact in common.” Tarn stiffened, trying not to betray his surprise. A former Autobot officer kept contact with Soundwave?! “I put out a call for a ‘Con who could fit in, but I gotta admit you aren’t what I expected to turn up.”

Shock and unease went down hard, but he swallowed them. Now was not the time to wonder what games Soundwave played. Lord Megatron’s former right hand lurked in the shadows of Cybertron, relying on connections and debts owed to stay out of prison. Right now Tarn couldn’t figure out if he owed the communication specialist anything for the unsigned message directing him here. Every cable in his body was tensed in expectation of the trap springing shut.

Working his mouth for a moment, he picked his words carefully. “Ah. Regardless of what you were...led to expect, I’m here now, if you are hiring.” He hesitated. “What position is open, if I might ask?”

All he could think of was the cryptic message saying his _‘conversational style and interest in current affairs’_ would be beneficial in getting the job. Damus had educated himself as much as he could before and after empurata, and Senator Shockwave had crammed him full of high society etiquette along with further education. Even after joining the Decepticons, he’d kept the flowery speech patterns he knew sometimes grated on the lower class. In a club like this, he couldn’t imagine an innocent reason for good manners and poise. Speaking above his station had once ended in the Senate amputating his face and hands, after all.

Deadly calm, Jazz considered him and his question before granting an answer. “Hosts. We’re hiring hosts.” 

Tarn hated to think what that was a euphemism for. He didn’t want to dwell on it. He was here. He needed the job. Mechs had endured worse. It was legal work. It had to pay better than petty theft.

One side of that blue visor narrowed, as if Jazz were weighing pros and cons. “Y’are here, I suppose. You planning on causing any trouble?”

He shook his head silently. 

“Y’think you’d be any good at it?”

What kind of question was that? Honestly, how hard could it be? Wait, no, he didn’t want to think about that, either. “It would help if I knew the job requirements,” Tarn said quietly, but he couldn’t meet the Autobot’s level gaze. Did they really have to talk about this out on the street? He thought that keeping this private was kind of the point of having a club for it.

Jazz gave him one more assessing look that said the Autobot knew what exactly Tarn had been, what exactly he was still capable of, and what exactly that was worth in the wake of defeat. “Alright. Come in and talk to th’ boss.” He flashed a smile when Tarn blinked at him in dull surprise. “I’m not in charge of hiring. I’m just filtering out the bad cases before they get to the bar. It’s up to Swerve t’decide if you’ll bring the customers in or not.”

Oh, scrap, this hadn’t even been the job interview? Who was Swerve? Frag, he didn’t have a single file on any Autobot named Swerve! Was he Blurr’s best friend, club manager, or just a bartender? Was he part owner? Full owner? That would explain the name of the club; he’d thought Off Track referred to Blurr’s racing fame, but apparently it was a play on whatever Swerve was famous for. Tarn wasn’t sure what that was, but it had to be somewhat important. The mech was obviously in charge of hiring club hosts, if nothing else.

A wash of anxiety flooded down Tarn’s backstruts. Suddenly, moving this into the privacy of the club before opening hours seemed like a very bad idea.

But it was this or unemployment.

Tarn braced himself for the worst and followed Jazz inside.

 

**[* * * * *]**

_[ **A/N:** First part for TwistyRocks! Thank you!]_


	2. Pt. 2

**Title:** White Lies  
**Warning:** Yet another AU where the Decepticons didn’t win the war. There were no last stands. There were no martyrs or hidden rebel cells. There was only defeat and trying to live in the aftermath. Possible dubcon situations. Obviously, the D.J.D. reveal in MTMTE futzed everything in this fic up, so as of 9/14/16 I’m taking down the parts to edit and rewrite to align with canon. Also in the hopes of continuing past where the divergence stopped me.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Continuity:** More Than Meets The Eye AU, G1 influence.  
**Characters:** Decepticon Justice Division, Jazz, Swerve, Pharma.  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** There was a beautiful picture by FelixFellow, and then I had an idea. It mutated. TwistyRocks got me to write the first part, just to see what happened. Due to the need to write poverty-level Cybertron, I had to make up monetary amounts less than a shanix.  
Shanix  
hanix (half a shanix)  
quanix (quarter shanix)  
einix (eighth of a shanix)  
nix (eight to an einix, sixteen to a quanix, 32 to a hanix, 64 to a shanix)

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Pt. 2: Dealing with the Devil.**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

Ugh, the neon got worse up close. Tarn dimmed his optics in self-defense going through the door, but fortunately the concentration of garish lights stopped at the entryway. Once inside, the reception desk had a single bright lamp focused on its surface, but the neon tubes swirled away to a bar at one end of the room and a stage at the other end. Footlights studded a cleared area in front of the stage that likely held dancers during open hours.

The rest of the club stretched out into shadows. Lighting and seating delineated the club into sections: public party and intimate privacy. Unlike many clubs that had tried for it, this place succeeded. The tacky lighting around the bar and stage became a stylish contrast to the subdued atmosphere throughout the main floor. 

Cubbies full of tables and low, comfortable couches lined the walls, and each table out on the main floor had dim, diffused lighting for a cozy feeling. Thick pillar supports discretely divided the room up without blocking line of sight to the stage. Taking advantage of the spacious club interior, the floor plan catered to different size frametypes. Chair height varied, as did the tables, allowing for plenty of room between tables to move about without interrupting conversations by shoving chairs aside. Tesarus might have had trouble, but Tarn threaded the maze of tables easily. 

He found himself nodding approval. First impression aside, this was the kind of place planned out to the smallest detail. The attention to comfort made the difference between sitting down for a quick drink or settling down for the full show, and that impressed him. He’d expected a sleazy dive masquerading as a class act, but everything looked clean. Serviceable. There was a strong, smoky tint to the air as if something had been burnt here, but it wasn’t overpowering. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Leftovers from a past stage show, perhaps, but it didn’t do more than register on his chemical receptors before his air filters eliminated it.

Glum resignation tightened his treads. Despite the gaudy neon, this was the kind of club he’d be interested in, provided the stage shows were any good. He could tell from the ceiling shape that the acoustics around the stage were excellent. Music would broadcast out, but conversation from the tables wouldn’t be heard halfway across the club. That was a tricky piece of sound management.

However, this club revolved around different attractions. The stage shows might be a draw, but the tactful screening around the tables and couches in the deep, dark cubbies allowed privacy for _other_ entertainment. Private entertainment, as it were. What set Off Track apart from Maccadam’s Old Oil House wasn’t the location or interior decorating.

A staircase beside the bar led upward, and a neon blue sign next to it blared an advertisement for _‘Private Rooms Available!’_ Tarn really didn’t want to think about what they were rented out for. His systems were upset enough as it was.

Because while he ran a critical optic over the club’s seating arrangements, the rest of him braced for applying as its...decor. As one of the fixtures that drew people in. As nice as this place seemed, his thoughts stalled out at the ‘host club’ part. 

He didn’t want to work here.

Yes, well, what Tarn wanted had no effect on reality. He wanted Lord Megatron alive and whole, the Senate overthrown, and life on Cybertron reformed by the Decepticon Cause. He wanted his place and purpose back, but that wasn’t going to happen no matter how much time he wasted on fruitless wishes.

Tarn’s engine’s threatened to turn over, but Kaon’s meticulously installed suppression chip hissed static below the surface of his mind. It interrupted the downward spiral of his thoughts. The tank reset his optics, cycled a long vent, and calmed himself. The smoky scent in the air pinged his sensors again, and he concentrated fiercely on the distraction. Anger served no purpose. The war was over. The Decepticons were defeated. 

Vos needed to take the teaching exam, and the rest of his unit needed fuel. Tarn _would_ work here, and he’d slagging well be _grateful_ that Soundwave had found him the job. If he could work at a call center doing customer service, then he could work as waitstaff and -- whatever else the position demanded. Shareware in a place like this had to earn decent wages. He should focus on that.

The brief rev of his engine caused Jazz to glance back. “Second thoughts?” the Autobot asked.

Tarn cycled air once more before trusting his vox box. He could do this. “Not at all. It lives up to its reputation,” he said in a conversational voice. “Has it been open long?”

Jazz’s smile had sharp edges. “A couple months. It’s why we’re hiring, y’know? Finally busy enough to need more hosts workin’.”

The sick clutch in his circuits squeezed tighter. Either employee turnover was unduly high, or the current employees had reached the limits of their endurance. Best-case scenario was one where management encouraged quality over quantity in service as well as seating. Maybe the club’s hosts didn’t have time to accommodate more customers without skimping on the, ah, full experience.

There were times he was astoundingly glad he wore a mask. Whatever his expression, he kept his voice level. “That’s good.”

“For you? Sure is.” The former Head of Special Operations didn’t laugh, but he didn’t need to. Tarn already knew how fortunate he was, how badly he needed this job, and how much his situation amused Jazz. The Autobot had to be gloating. One of Megatron’s right-hand mechs was humbly asking him for employment. In Jazz’s place, Tarn wouldn’t have bothered hiding how delicious the power tasted.

As long as Jazz kept the mockery covert, Tarn would endure the humiliation of begging work from a former enemy. Swallowing his pride wasn’t a new skill, and the post-war crash course in relearning it hadn’t been gentle. Cybertron’s job market was brutal on the losing side. Like most Decepticons he knew, he’d endured some truly terrible job interviews where managers had used their position of power to take war-related frustrations out on him. So far, his employers had been too afraid to do more than slap penalties on his job record and fire him, but every business willing to hire from the ghetto had warnings whispered about cruel opportunists hanging the threat of unemployment over their workers to extort extra from them. Usually it was longer hours at less pay, but Iacon’s sublevels echoed with worse stories. Yet Decepticons still lined up to apply. What else could they do? Workers who protested the treatment or demanded basic rights found themselves escorted straight to the door by security, and oh look, somebody less subversive was right outside eager to fill the brand new job vacancy.

Megatron’s message of revolution had resounded so powerfully among the oppressed masses because they _were_ oppressed. And no matter what Optimus Prime’s speeches promised, Tarn didn’t see any new laws trickling down to protect the Decepticons now occupying the lowest bracket in the labor force. Perhaps the Autobots meant it to be punishment for the war. Maybe they saw it as keeping the Decepticons in line. Most likely they just plain didn’t care to improve a stranger’s life if it wouldn’t benefit them somehow. 

It left the Decepticons with no option but to put their heads down and get used to defeat. The spark-crushing everyday submission didn’t feel any better than it had the first time, but rebelling against the corrupt system had sunk them even lower than where they’d started. Resignation got a mech further in this life than futile anger. 

Gradually, job by job, the pre-war patience of a powerless nobody was creeping back into Tarn’s life. It allowed him to endure Jazz’s amusement, and he reminded himself that Soundwave kept contact with this mech. Jazz was as close as Tarn had to an ally going into this interview. 

Jazz bounced up to the bar ahead of him, performing a skip-hop that landed his aft on the bartop with the ease of long familiarity. One leg crossed over the other in a flashy flip, ankle-tire running down the opposite lower leg in a tantalizing show. The sleek curve of his hood reflected brilliant neon as he leaned back on his hands. If Tarn hadn’t been tense and anxious, he might have paused to appreciate the sight. Autobot or not, Jazz was a _fine_ specimen of a groundframe. 

A casual helm toss back let Jazz call behind the bar. “Hey, Swerve! Boss, got time for an interview?”

“Whoa, really? Got a bite on that ad already? Wow!” 

Assumptions would trip Tarn up yet. The voice came from lower than he’d been looking. His optics snapped downward right as a tray of glasses heaved up onto the bar from knee-height, and he belatedly noticed the mech digging in the cabinets under the counter. Oh. This unknown owner/manager/Swerve person was a minibot.

It wasn’t that Tarn had a problem with the _idea_ of taking orders from a smaller mech. A lot of people were smaller than him, including every manager from his last six jobs. Facing the reality put him a touch off-kilter, however. Merit had had its place among the Decepticons, but physical might had made right more often than not. Fighters had prospered. Officers had tended to be large and intimidating, so having a boss a quarter his size weirded him out. He’d have felt equally discomfited taking orders from Kaon or Vos. 

Alright, not quite as much. The level of awkward here couldn’t be matched by military hierarchy.

Especially since Swerve looked over the bar, saw him, and froze like a terrified petrorabbit. It might have been his size, but Tarn spotted the minibot’s Autobot insignia and winced. Just his luck. 

Right, running damage control before even introducing himself. This did not bode well for the interview. “I apologize for showing up without contacting you ahead of time. It seems a mutual acquaintance of ours,” he cast a pointed glance at Jazz, “felt I’d be ideal for the job. He must not have contacted you directly before referring me here. I’m sorry if my timing has inconvenienced you..?” He trailed off in a delicate question. 

Senator Shockwave had taught him well, once upon another life. Impeccable politeness acted as an offensive weapon if the initial volley hit the mark. It all depended on aim and timing. 

Tarn’s lips curved into a smug smile behind his mask as Swerve jerked under a direct hit to formal manners. “No, no! It’s okay, I wasn’t doing anything important, and anyway, I was hoping somebody would respond soon, so this is fine. It’s just fine! Don’t apologize!” Broad hands hurriedly pushed the tray of glasses aside, clearing the bar because it’d be rude to conduct an interview while not appearing to pay attention to the potential employee, and they were being polite, so polite. “It’s great that you’re here now, really! Just great. We’ll have time to talk before the club opens, and yeah. Yeah.”

Perfect. The Autobot was on the defensive. Time to gracefully back off before he seemed aggressive instead of polite.

Tarn bowed his head in deference to Swerve’s insistence that they talk. “Thank you for your time. Although I am beginning to think my acquaintance failed to consider that the establishment might not be geared toward mechs like myself,” he said, giving the words an apologetic cast as if blaming himself for the minibot’s reaction to seeing a Decepticon in his club. 

He balanced his voice between quiet and a hearty boom. Too much volume combined with his size was menacing; too little came off as sinister. Too far either way sounded like he was trying too hard. Talking like a ‘normal’ mech took more effort than most realized, and after years in command, Tarn was out of practice.

The balancing act worked, today. Swerve’s flustered scramble relaxed a tad, or at least the panicked babble of excuses tapered off. “Uh, right. No, wait, that’s, um, great! It’s great. Everybody gets a chance to recycle all that faction stuff into something new, that’s what I say, so this’s great. Just gre -- good. It’s good.” Obviously, Swerve didn’t have a clue where to start. He shot a quick glance at Jazz in a less-than-subtle plea for help, visor pale, but Jazz had his attention on a ding in his forearm. No help was forthcoming. 

After fumbling for a minute, the minibot regrouped and smiled so wide seeing it made Tarn’s face hurt. “I always wanted to make a Decepticon friend after the war ended. New beginnings! Right?” 

Tarn’s vents closed, but his immediate wariness didn’t otherwise show. Swerve expected a friend as well an employee? That didn’t inspire any joy in him. He preferred his professional relationships to be exactly that: professional. 

Ah, frag. Maybe the ‘friendship’ Swerve wanted _was_ professional.

He hated this scrap so much.

Regretting every step he’d taken tonight, Tarn hid his clenched fists behind his back and managed a shallow nod. “Right.”

His agreement came out weak, but Swerve didn’t seem to need input once he’d gotten started talking. “Right! And that’s why I put out the advertisement for a ‘Con. War’s over, and I figure I can do my part to get over dividing everyone up. I can’t be the only one who wants to actually sit down and talk to somebody like you, y’know? War’s over, time to move on! You’ll be a,” he hesitated, highly expressive face showcasing doubt for half a second before cheer bulldozed it. Swerve beamed and hurried on, “A novelty! A draw, like a technimal at the zoo only, er, not. No no, not like that at all, but something unique, anyway. Kind of a commercial thing in and of itself, yeah?” 

Dumbfounded, Tarn took a step back as the minibot threw his hands up to picture an imaginary poster starring him dead center. 

“Big guy like you might scare some folks,” hello understatement, “but think of it as a chance to sit down with somebody who could of killed us!” Even Jazz tilted his head to give Swerve a baffled look at that, but the mech couldn’t be repressed. Once his mouth got started, it couldn’t be shut off. “Tame murderer of the club! It’s like a thrill ride for danger-seekers, except sitting down at a table.” He squinted through the frame made by his thumbs and forefingers at the purple Decepticon emblem-mask staring back at him. “Drinks with a killer!”

Tarn’s mouth worked, but he couldn’t find words. Shockwave had taught him to weaponize politeness against individuals, but this level of tactlessness could stun a battalion.

Jazz couldn’t keep a straight face. Covering a giant smile with both hands, he doubled over to laugh silently at the Decepticon’s utterly befuddled disbelief. His doors bobbed in mirth as he picked up some of the tact lying about on the floor. “Swerve. Boss, that ain’t the best plan, I think. Not the kinda image we wanna project here, yeah? We’re more about relaxin’ and having a good time than fear for life an’ limb.”

Swerve deflated. “We could make it work…”

Tarn found his voice at last. “That’s not the kind of image **I** want to project,” he said, rough and a touch uneven. He _was_ a killer, but the point of masking his face and taking a different name was to _hide_ his past. His unit couldn’t afford publicity. “I sincerely doubt many people would find the idea of sitting down with a threat to be appealing, in any case. My skill as a conversationalist would be a far better advertisement than anything so…” He struggled to find a diplomatic way to phrase it. Crass? Exploitative? Humiliating?

“War-like?” Jazz asked dryly. His gaze stayed steady despite the amusement wiggling his doors. He knew what the former leader of the D.J.D. was thinking. A mech desperate for employment would play whatever part he had to get the job, but rubbing defeat in Tarn’s face by making it a selling point was pitiless as well as tactless. 

The saboteur-turned-host turned a conciliatory smile on his boss. “What he said, Swerve. War’s over, and it’s kinda poor taste remindin’ everyone of the fighting. We’ll have enough of that with **that** on the floor.” He nodded at Tarn’s mask, and the Decepticon inclined his head in return. It was a valid point. 

Elbows on the bar and lips pressed together unhappily, Swerve offered a half-sparked shrug. “It was idea, what can I say. You got to admit that you’re going to be a tough sell.” He waved at Tarn, visor squinched up as his mouth pulled to the side. “No offense or anything, but not everybody’s looking to make friends with a ‘Con. Customers come in to have fun. None of the other hosts are as big as you, and you got that mask, and while I’m sure your personality’s wonderful, it’s the first impression you’ve got to nail in this business.”

Tarn honestly wasn’t sure if he should feel insulted by that. The mask unnerved many people, but he’d always felt his body, at the very least, was quite handsome. Surely not everyone in Iacon desired the same frametype? His size and altmode were different from the norm this far up-level, but that shouldn’t turn customers off from buying his services. The promise of submission available upon purchase seemed like it’d make him _more_ desirable, when he thought about it. 

Not that he wanted to think about it, but too late now.

Somewhat disturbed, he spoke without thinking. “I would think my appearance would make me more appealing to some.” 

Shame heated Tarn’s tubes the second he said it out loud, but it earned a bark of laughter. Grinning Jazz shook his head. “Kinky as a wire tangle, but you’re pro’bly right on that. Might work if we pitch it right. You’re somethin’ different than what we’ve got on offer now, so maybe we can take that angle. Draw in new customers.” 

The way Jazz eyed him, it wouldn’t surprise Tarn if the SpecOps mech could see the embarrassment heating his systems at the idea of being the newest item available for purchase. Cold drenched him a second later as the knowing look turned skeptical, sweeping him from treads to feet as if searching for something. 

“Still…I dunno. Y’look dangerous. Dangerous don’t sell.”

Didn’t it? Tarn sincerely doubted Jazz kept the dark deeds done during the war completely under wraps, not if that sharp smile meant anything. He understood it to mean Jazz wanted proof. The Autobot wanted him to do the full song and dance to prove he could do the job. More than the job. Jazz wanted to know Tarn understood his place. He wanted to know the club wasn’t hiring a Decepticon loyalist on the verge of snapping, that Tarn had learned his lesson.

What had his life come to that he had to persuade an Autobot he could submit? Liquid heat drenched his internal parts as Tarn softened his stance from the military-correct parade rest he’d unconsciously assumed. He’d have to get used to deliberately displaying his best features if _pretty_ was what sold, here. “I have no intention of starting trouble,” he said, “but a hint of danger is attractive to some. First impressions are, of course, important, but I’m proficient at drawing conversation out of those who are unsure what to make of me at first.” In other words, he had a lot of experience speaking with small, scared-lubeless coworkers. “I assume that persuading customers to spend money at the bar and,” he refused to look at the neon advertisement for private rooms, “elsewhere is part of the job?”

“Hosts get a quarter of every drink and fuel purchase their customers make,” Jazz confirmed easily.

A quarter of every purchase? Tarn’s optics flicked over to skim the menu behind the bar, widening as he read the prices. A quarter of _that?_

He tried not to swallow too loudly, cycling air hard to cover the creak as his throat intakes tightened. The shareware here were paid more than he’d thought, and there was a sudden urgency to his words no matter how carefully he chose them. “I can be quite persuasive when it comes to getting customers to spend money. I had the highest sales record for the call center I worked at prior to this.” He dropped his vox box into a deeper tone, layering a suggestive overtone onto the low purr that had seduced customers into upgrading their vidsystems and commlines without questioning the price. “And that was only using my voice.” 

Feeling foolish, he brought one hand up to rest on his hip in a cocksure pose. He was no pin-up mech. Jazz’s unreadable look became an assessing stare instead of dismissal he’d been expecting, however, so Tarn counted it a minor victory.

Until Jazz spoke. “I’ve heard ‘bout your voice, mech.”

Ice ran down his wires. Well, that was ominous. Was there anything Autobot Special Operations _hadn’t_ known by the end of the war? He met Jazz’s gaze, but he was far too aware he’d be the one to look away first. Having his defenses stripped away left him raw and vulnerable, waiting anxiously for the final strike on his bared protoform once Jazz finished toying with him.

When Swerve interrupted the unnerving staredown, Tarn almost thanked him.

As fast as he’d gained enthusiasm, the minibot had lost it. He’d been frowning at the bar counter while Tarn and Jazz spoke, but the dark thrum of the tankformer’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Wow. That’s -- okay, did not see that coming.” Impressed, he blinked up at the Decepticon for a long moment as the surprise faded. “I get why you’d fit in at a call center. Those guys can talk almost as much as me, but they always hang up on me after an hour or so. And sales experience! That’s got to count for something. I get that, I really do. We could use that in here.”

Jazz looked down at his boss somewhat fondly, like a teacher with a particularly exasperating pupil. “Don’t make him any smaller, though.”

They all knew the real issue, and Tarn gave up the polite pretense of ignoring it. He lost the uncomfortable pose, too. It just didn’t fit him. “My size isn’t nearly the issue that my former faction is, is it?”

Swerve’s visor slid to the side. “Yeeeeeeeah. It’s not that I don’t want the chance to get to know you -- hey, great! -- but the whole. Mask. Thing.” His smile became a stiff near-grimace. “It’s more in-your-face than intimate, sooooo. Don’t suppose you could, y’know, take it off?”

Jazz’s smile turned predatory even as Tarn shook his head. “Aw, why not?” the saboteur asked, faux-innocent.

The Decepticon leveled a flat, unamused look at him before tipping his head back. He tapped one finger on the visible weld line under his chin. “It doesn’t come off.” It used to, but like Vos’ mask, the D.J.D. had decided to eliminate the possibility of an accidental reveal. Besides, the Brand Law prohibited him from taking it off even if he wanted to remove it. Something Jazz knew full well.

Unlike Swerve, who flinched back one second but stared in eager curiosity the next. “Didn’t that **hurt**?” he blurted out. “I mean, well, I mean that. Didn’t it hurt?”

The minibot’s blunt reactions were refreshingly open compared to Jazz’s cutting shrewdness. The contrast had Tarn thoroughly off-balance. Jazz lowered his head until only a sliver of a wicked grin could be seen under the shadow of his helm, and Tarn refused to react as the suppression chip blocked combat protocol activation yet again. 

“Yes,” he said shortly to Swerve. “It hurt.” 

“Oh.” Swerve processed that. “I guess if you can’t take it off, you can’t take it off, but that’s going to make things harder. When I put out the ad for hiring a Decepticon, I didn’t mean someone so -- huh, that sounds really bad now that I say it out loud.” Tarn glared harder, and the minibot busied himself unloading the glasses off the forgotten tray. “Say! Do you want a drink? On the house!”

Empty fuel tanks whined. Tarn set his teeth. “No, thank you.”

The familiarity of bartending soothed Swerve, it seemed, and his nervous chatter slowed to something more naturally friendly. “Aw, come on. Nobody turns down a free drink. Sit down and take a load off.” He already had a glass under the nearest spigot, drawing off a hefty mug of a light pink engex that bubbled enticingly. 

When he set it on the bar, fuel gauge readings popped up all over Tarn’s HUD. The Decepticon stared at the mug through the vivid red warnings but didn’t touch it. “Really, I’m fine.” 

The mug had been large in the minibot’s hands but would be a small drink for him. Small or not, drinking it on empty tanks would result in a burst of too much energy as his systems burnt through it. His scant portion of energon from this morning wouldn’t be much of a buffer between him and the overcharge. He’d be fendered in a matter of minutes and crash into stasis right afterward as systems sent into overdrive gobbled up his remaining reserves.

Jazz gave him a sly look, and Tarn pushed the gauge readings aside in order to pointedly look at Swerve instead of the drink. Time to break out the manners arsenal, it seemed. “By the way, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Tarn.” He extended the job application as he spoke, hoping to turn the conversation toward an actual job interview instead of a test of his patience. 

Swerve looked up from handing Jazz an elegantly tapered flute of engex right as the application entered his personal space, and the minibot took it on reflex. Triumph! 

“Huh? Oh. Nice to meetcha, Tarn. I’m Swerve, owner and bartender of Off Track. Here. The club.” He surveyed the room proudly. “Got an agreement with Blurr, but it’s my place 100%.”

The blue visor dissecting Tarn down to the processor core cut to the side abruptly, away from Swerve. Jazz covered it by taking a sip before setting his glass aside, and when he looked at Tarn again, he seemed as amused as ever. “You know who I am. Work here as lead host an’ stage manager, an’ I rock the beats on request.” He tipped his helm toward the empty stage.

Tarn didn’t give any sign of noticing Jazz’s momentary lapse, but he had. There was something that wasn’t being said, but the saboteur’s smile gave no hint of what it was, so Tarn merely nodded. “Charmed. Now if you don’t mind, I was hoping someone could tell me more about the job..?” Not a _push_ , precisely, but a strong nudge to get on with talking about the position itself.

He didn’t want the job, but he needed it. Therefore, he had to learn about it despite how his processors recoiled from absorbing further information.

“Eager, huh? That’s a good sign. We need more get-up-n-go around here,” Swerve said, already half a page into the application. “Business is good, but it can always be better, I say.”

“Are you saying I don’t hustle enough?” asked Jazz. Black fingers idly traced the rim of the glass as he shook his head. “I gotta get some bustlin’ in my hustlin’.”

“I’m saying we’ve got too much bustle for your hustle, and we need more hustlers to handle our bustlers.” Swerve’s free hand snagged Jazz’s glass and topped it off under the appropriate tap, pinkie finger tweaking the tab as his other two fingers held the slender flute under the nozzle. Full, it slid back onto the counter beside Jazz’s hip. Tarn was impressed the minibot did it without looking up from reading the application. “Unless you changed you mind on my cloning idea, we’ve got to bring in some newbies, and I want mechs who’re looking to work.”

Jazz’s lips quirked. “Yessir, Swerve sir. Hirin’ new hosts to horn in on my game it is.”

“It’s not **your** game.”

The abrupt change in the minibot’s demeanor startled Tarn. His optics darted between the two Autobots. Swerve’s open cheer had closed off. A belligerent look turned his visor a dark navy, and that expressive mouth turned down at the corners in what wasn’t quite a frown. He had the look of a mech poked in a tender new weld. 

“Right, boss.” Jazz didn’t flinch or lean away, but Tarn noticed how fast the easy acceptance came. 

Swerve’s shoulders relaxed down as quick as they’d tensed up. Interesting. Tarn marked every sign of tension he saw before they disappeared, marking them as important warning signs for if he worked here. Mental note to himself: never challenge Swerve’s ownership. The minibot seemed to enjoy some joking around, but question his right to the club and even an employee like Jazz wasn’t safe from his temper. Or perhaps they were friends. Tarn couldn’t tell how close these two were to each other.

He’d have to keep a close optic on that. 

“You’ve worked at a lot of places,” Swerve said, and the Decepticon’s interest nosedived into apprehension. “Call centers, yep, one or two of those. I see it. Lots of office positions.” 

He didn’t need to say anything further. Just mentioning it aloud pointed out the oddity. 

Before the war, a mech of Tarn’s frametype working in an _office_ would have been nearly impossible. His type was good for manual labor and nothing else, as the Functionalist Council had decreed. They had been lobbying to make it illegal for someone like him to even attempt seeking a job that fit his vocal talents instead of his frametype. Tarn didn’t know Swerve’s political leanings, but anyone with the slightest bit of Functionalist sympathy would see an office job on a tankformer’s resume as the mark of a malcontent. A troublemaker. 

To Tarn’s mild surprise, Swerve just nodded. “I used to be a metallurgist before I joined the Autobots. War made me want to try something else, and here I am as a bartender.” 

He smiled up at the tank, proud, and Tarn stared at him in speechless affront. Possessing a talent that didn’t fit one’s frametype had once resulted in empurata for mechs caught by the Senate, as Tarn could attest, and the right to be more than a frametype had been a foundation tenet of the Decepticon Cause. Now an Autobot benefited from what the Decepticons had fought and lost for, and Tarn had no idea how to respond to that kind of irony. 

Swerve chattered on. “It’s not for everybody, but how do you know what you don’t like it if you don’t try? I always wanted to open a bar of my own, and it took me a while, but I got it. The things I had to do to get this place open were crazy, just crazy, but I had a friend, y’know? Just got to have friends in the right places.” 

Tarn’s spark twisted in his chest, and for a second all he could remember was Senator Shockwave, before and after. Not everyone had the right friends at the right time, and sometimes those friends paid a terrible price.

“How many times you been fired, Tarn?” Jazz asked when it seemed Swerve was going to launch into a lengthy story of his life. 

The minibot took the change in topic without missing a beat. “Does look like your Previous Employment section goes on and on. Mine looks like that, too, but all of my entries are from -- let’s just say I talk a lot and call it good. Some people can’t take a joke,” he muttered subvocal before continuing brightly, “I don’t want to call all these past supervisors. It’d take all night. What’s the deal, tank‘Con?” 

From the way he said it, Tarn thought it was supposed to be some sort of nickname, but any indignation he felt for being reduced to an altmode and faction slur vanished when Swerve peered over the application form at him. Every alarm he had blared warning. His treads locked down as he took a step back. The suppression chip activated, hissing interference that gave him an instant processor ache as it turned his thoughts to static and white noise, but it was only just enough to prevent him from accessing dormant weapon systems. 

For a split second, the affable, chatterbox minibot had the look of someone who listened to everyone he talked to, and Tarn remembered exactly where he was standing: enemy territory. Small and loudmouthed didn’t mean Swerve wasn’t a threat. Nobody suspected a nervous babbler to gather intel on his customers, but even the most sullen bartenders Tarn had ever met held an huge richness of information on their clientele. Bartenders were the dismissed, overlooked spies.

The best agents were the ones whose covers were air-tight. The Pet had been proof of that, and the former Vos hadn’t slipped up until the very end. Swerve…Swerve could be even more dangerous. Tarn should have remembered how deep the Autobot agents dug their cover personas. He should have remembered that part of Jazz’s notoriety came from his ability to make connections everywhere he went. The mech could make an ally out of his own executioner, and this minibot supposedly employed him. 

No wonder Swerve defended his position as club owner. It didn’t take much to see the strings pulled the other direction. 

Then Swerve gave that broad, cheerful smile, and he was just a minibot with an inability to control his runaway mouth. Tarn wondered if he’d imagined it. 

He shook the thought away, because he had a question to answer. “Ah…I have, unfortunately, lost quite a few jobs because of circumstances beyond my control. You see, my frame intimidated several of my former coworkers into filing complaints against me, and it seemed that despite my best efforts, there were irreconcilable differences between management and myself in one or two of the other positions I held.“ 

Bullet points from job interview guides he’d gleaned from the infonet popped up on his HUD. Talking badly about former jobs implied he’d speak ill about the job he was currently applying for. Tarn changed tactics, projecting earnest reassurance through his voice as hard as he could. “I obviously cannot do much about changing my appearance, but I do my best to ensure my job performance makes up for any misunderstandings caused by poor first impressions. Putting my coworkers -- and customers -- at ease is a high priority for me. I prefer communication in the workplace to be as free of unfounded fear as possible. It creates strife where there is none and hampers productivity.” 

That was pulled almost word-for-word from a particular self-help guide Kaon liked, so he hoped Swerve didn’t read guides for successful job interviews. He also hoped the minibot didn’t ask about the petty theft accusation. He didn’t have a graceful way to evade talking about it.

“That’s good,” Swerve said as he read through the application. “What kind of job skills are you bringing to this position, Tarn?”

On the one hand: wonderful, this was a question the guides had prepared him to answer. Every job interview had at least a short period where the interviewer invited the applicant to sell himself, and Tarn was an excellent salesmech. He had a list of accomplishments and positive personality traits to tote out for display.

On the other hand: he had _no idea_ what were considered job skills for this position.

And Jazz was smirking at him again. Fantastic.

Hesitation never looked good during an interview. “Well, I, ah. I **am** experienced in selling different kinds of product, as you can see from my resume. Ah, selling customers drinks and…whatever else is on the menu wouldn’t be much of a change from upselling customers on products during a troubleshooting call. No matter how frustrated the client, I’ve never had a problem turning the conversation toward some sort of underlying need they’ve come to me to fulfill.” Was that too much? Did he had to be blunt about this, or was innuendo enough? He sincerely doubted his meaning went unnoticed, as Swerve nodded along with his points and Jazz’s visor sparkled with amusement. “And, ah, my talent for conversation was one of the reasons I was referred to this job. I’m well-versed in classic literature and current events, including politics and finances as well as the more standard popular entertainment media.” Since gossiping with his coworkers hadn’t appealed, he’d had a lot of time on his hands at the call centers to spend surfing the infonet, reading and watching things he normally couldn’t stand. 

“I can sit down and talk with anyone in a casual or more **intense** setting.” Hint hint, nudge nudge. “As for catering to customer demands…” He tried and failed to make himself address specific job skills. Describing his ability and willingness to interface for money stuck in his throat. The words were there. He just gagged on saying them, physically unable to engage his vox box to spit them out. 

After a couple false starts, he managed a feeble statement of, “Customer service isn’t an area I fall short in.”

Behind the glass raised to his lips, Jazz tried not to crack up. Shame and hatred burnt in equal amounts under Tarn’s spark. The fire flared despite the damping pressure from the suppression chip. The saboteur silently laughed at his clenched fists and lowered optics. 

Mercifully, perhaps intentionally, Swerve seemed oblivious to the byplay as he read. “Give ‘em what they want? If the price is right, if you get my drift. But that all sounds great, really good. What do you consider your biggest flaw?”

Okay, the minibot must have a pre-set series of questions. Was the giant assault tank altmode and purple Decepticon mask not obvious enough? “I’ve always thought it a design flaw that some of my inbuilt systems draw energy even when not in use, especially upon transformation,” Tarn said dryly, and Jazz doubled over snorting muffled laughter up his intake. “My fueling expenses are higher than I’d like because of that.” 

Tankformers diverted a lot of fuel to their weaponry on automatic, and bringing double fusion cannons up to standby mode consumed part of that fuel. Tarn wanted to transform so badly the need roiled in the back of his mind even now, but his unit barely made enough money to supply basic living expenses. Every means of conserving power had to be taken, so transformation was a luxury he couldn’t afford. 

Jazz’s laughter caught Swerve’s audio at last, and the minibot looked at the other Autobot in confusion. When his visor widened, Tarn braced for more laughter.

“Oh, slag!” The untouched mug of engex was swept off the counter as Swerve burst into motion, expression bizarrely distraught. “I didn’t mean to -- look, I’ve got some leftover energon chips from last night, or no, wait a second and I’ll whip up something in the back. Nobody’s in yet but I’m not a half-bad chemist if I say so myself, so hold on and I’ll make you something.“

“That’s not necessary! No, that’s -- I’m not offended. I’m fine! I didn’t mean anything by what I said, I would never -- “ How. How on Cybertron could someone make this whole situation more embarrassing. How? It didn’t seem physically possible, yet here Tarn was with his hands up as if to placate this infuriating little mech. He had to stop Swerve before he zipped into the back to offer him energon like some sort of charity case. Energon for a starving mech who made passive-aggressive statements in an attempt to get a handout during a _job interview_ , as if the offer of a free drink wasn’t enough. “I’m fine, I don’t need anything, please just -- don’t. I apologize if it seemed like I was trying to ask for -- “

“Seriously, it’s okay! Hospitality, right? Right, it’s fine, I know not everybody can afford decent energon. It kind of explains why your plating is so dull, now that I think about it, but -- “

“My paint’s matte!” Not exactly, but he’d gone for a dull finish instead of a good waxing because he hadn’t known he’d be selling his body for this job. Also because he _was_ underfueled, and it’d show up as ugly swatches where the polish absorbed into his plating instead of shining the surface. 

Which Swerve immediately picked up on, and Tarn’s shoulders hunched the barest amount as the minibot wagged a finger at him. “No it’s not. I’m a metallurgist, remember? I know the difference between a painted surface and color nanites, and those are underfueled nanites. Sit down, and I’ll find something for a snack!” 

The chiding gesture turned into a finger pointing at a barstool, and Tarn winced a second time. He’d offended Swerve by lying, and he’d offend him more if he refused the free fuel at this point. He couldn’t afford that. 

Pride felt like broken glass going down as he swallowed it. He took the seat as ordered, and Jazz laughed without sound at his elbow, all but vibrating in glee. 

Tarn folded his hands together on the bartop tight enough to make the joints creak, but he coughed softly to loosen his vox box enough for a quiet, “Thank you.” To spite the saboteur, if nothing else. He could be gracious. He didn’t want the so-called ‘generosity’ being forced on him, but he would fragging well be polite about accepting it, since he didn’t have much choice about the matter.

Swerve started toward the back but whirled around partway there. “Don’t sneak away while my back’s turned. You still want the job?”

He didn’t want the job. He didn’t want to be pitied, given energon and employment out of a smarmy sense of obligation to the poor or whatever savior complex occasionally motivated Autobots and neutrals to toss a few shanix into the gutter for the beaten-down mechs in the lowest classes.

The system could have been changed. 

Could have been. Hadn’t been, however, and the war was over. This was the life of a loser, and he’d better get used to it.

“Yes,” said the Decepticon, defeated. “I want the job.” Needed it, as urgent and bitter as his unit needed the low-grade energon they survived on. 

“Okay, then. You’re hired. Trial period, anyway. We’ll, er, talk about it more in a little while.” Swerve’s visor brightened, but Tarn couldn’t look at him. “Jazz! Can you fill tank’Con in on job requirements?” The saboteur threw him a lazy salute, but Swerve hesitated a minute more before nodding decisively. “I’ll be back in no time.”

The minibot disappeared through a door on the far end of the bar counter. Blessed silence finally descended.

Silence and Jazz. Tarn considered religion a crime, yet he briefly considered praying for Primus to spare him this conversation. Jazz didn’t even have to say anything to turn the relief of silence into a crushing, awkward weight. And to think the tank been convinced working under the former Autobot officer would be the worst humiliation possible. The job interview alone had turned into a test of his temper and suppression chip. The idea of enduring this while working packed sour, prickly rage around his spark.

At least he’d gotten the job. Tarn stared fixedly at his hands and stuffed acidic resentment into his empty fuel tanks to stew. He’d gotten the blasted job.

Somewhere outside, someone honked and shouted. It sounded like traffic was picking up as the work cycle wound down.

The sleek frame posed at the edge of his vision uncrossed and recrossed long legs, sighing to break the tense silence at last. “Tank’Con,” Jazz said as if tasting the nickname. “That’s…something new, mmhmm. Never thought I’d live t’ see the day someone like **you** didn’t tear someone like him a new one for disrespectin’ you.” The emphasis could have meant Decepticon, officer, or leader of the Justice Division. Maybe even just a large frametype, because what mech Tarn’s size put up with a stupid nickname from a _minibot?_

A strangled, angry rev popped past the suppression chip’s interference. Seething anger turned over his engine despite layers of lockdown, but Tarn laced his fingers together and kept his optics down. He _would not_ offer threat. 

Jazz sighed again, a short puffing exhale more exasperation than drama this time. “Don’t let it get to you. He calls everybody by these things he just…pulls outta thin air.” One hand waved as the Autobot shook his head. “I’ll bring it up to him later -- again -- but just go on and remind him y’ got a name. He’s used to it. It don’t stop him, but what the slag. He’s the boss. Let him use his silly names; they make the customers laugh. And I’ll send you and your whole unit straight to th’ smelter if you try anything, **Commandant**.”

The sudden, clear threat pierced Tarn’s mounting anger in a cold shock made twice as chilling for how Jazz’s friendly tone never changed. He jerked his head up, red optics round in surprise. They met the steady blue visor of an Autobot far more dangerous in this post-war world than any Decepticon could hope to be.

The traffic from outside sounded incredibly loud. A tuneless humming that could only be Swerve came from the open doorway, along with some miscellaneous clinks and clanks from whatever he was doing back there. Tarn’s fans stalled. Air cycled in and out, shallow and slow. Tarn breathed quieter than the wind stirring, and his gaze locked against a knife-edged reminder of how easily he and his unit could be exposed.

“We clear?” Jazz asked, smiling. Smiling as if he couldn’t completely destroy the Decepticon Justice Division.

Tarn looked away, dropping his optics to his hands again. Jazz’s gaze stayed on him, coming to rest like a knife nestling under his chin, and that threat would be his choke-chain, blackmail hung around his neck for whenever the Autobot needed to twist it a little further, control him a bit more. He understood that. He made himself accept it. 

“Yes,” he said. “We’re clear.”

 

**[* * * * *]**

 

_[ **A/N:** Second part for TwistyRocks! Thank you!]_


	3. Pt. 3

**Title:** White Lies  
 **Warning:** Yet another AU where the Decepticons didn’t win the war. There were no last stands. There were no martyrs or hidden rebel cells. There was only defeat and trying to live in the aftermath. Possible dubcon situations. Obviously, the D.J.D. reveal in MTMTE futzed everything in this fic up, so as of 9/14/16 I’m taking down the parts to edit for better alignment in the hopes of continuing past where the divergence stopped me.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** More Than Meets The Eye AU  
 **Characters:** Decepticon Justice Division, Jazz, Swerve, Pharma  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** There was a beautiful picture by FelixFellow, and then I had an idea. It mutated. TwistyRocks got me to write the first two parts, just to see what happened. Thank you to Vintage-Mechanics for this part!  
Due to the need to write poverty-level Cybertron, I had to make up monetary amounts less than a shanix.  
Shanix  
hanix (half a shanix)  
quanix (quarter shanix)  
einix (eighth of a shanix)  
nix (eight to an einix, sixteen to a quanix, 32 to a hanix, 64 to a shanix)

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
 **Pt. 3: Always Read the Fine Print**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

The stick burned.

Tarn watched it. He’d expected a lot of things walking into this place. Burning sticks had not been one of them. 

It did explain the strange smoky scent in the air, and the hosts made money through the burning, somehow. That made no sense to him. It was just a stick. A red ember smoldered down its length in a steady crawl of consumed minerals and grey wisps of smoke.

He reached out to the decorative centerpiece it rested in, turning it to the left as if that would explain the point of setting a stick on fire. No such luck, however, and he looked down at the small groundframe sitting beside him on the couch. “How much is it worth?”

“Depends on how they’re notched. This’s one of mine. See the notches?” Jazz leaned in to re-adjust the centerpiece. His door brushed over tank treads and down Tarn’s arm in a gesture too deliberate to be accidental. The curve of the couch in this cubby made for an intimate setting even before they leaned over the low table at their knees, and Tarn was suddenly aware of how close together they were.

He sat up straight in a hurry, flustered, and cleared his throat of an awkward knot of instinctive loathing and just as instinctive interest. “Yes, ah, of course. There are seven.” 

Smooth, Tarn. Pride of the Decepticons, right here, able to count to seven and everything. Fork over a medal.

“Eight, actually.”

Someone just smelt him down and spare him this humiliation.

Jazz didn’t smirk directly at him, but he knew the Autobot was laughing at him anyway. “You missed the one at the tip, I’m betting. See?” An unlit stick flipped out and waved in his face, and Tarn’s optics crossed trying to focus on the tip. Yep, there was the notch. “That’s the one y’get for just sitting down. Okay? Pay attention, I’ll do a run-through.”

The dangerous little mech popped up off the couch and took a few steps away before turning and sticking a hip out, arms crossed over his bumper. The dim lighting flattered his natural assets. Tarn squashed another inappropriate twinge of appreciation for a fine-looking groundframe. Jazz: saboteur, Autobot, and touchably shiny. 

His attitude was all business at the moment, but the business in question sort of amplified his innate attractiveness. “Here’s how it goes down. If the customer don’t stop at the entry desk and pick a host from the schedule, he’s gonna grab a seat instead. You go over, introduce yourself, and see if there’s a spark of interest. Like so.” 

Hips swayed forward, leading a bold sashay into Tarn’s personal space bubble, and Jazz bent to smile at him. “Hi there.” 

Tarn stopped himself from inching away from that bright smile. Fraggit, okay, yes. He got it. Customers were here for intimacy, physical or conversational. Of course a more-than-friendly approach was the norm. The back of Jazz’s fingers smoothed down Tarn’s upper arm as a high-performance motor purred at him, and Tarn was glad his mask covered his face. His expression had to be a picture of conflicting urges. Not so much _‘fight or flee’_ as _‘punch or pull closer.’_

Armor crawling, he forced himself to stay still. The job required plate-to-plate contact. Standing this close, the thrum of engines vibrated through metal. It was a blatant sign of interest, bypassing coy flirting to indicate he was willing and available. It went against everything he wanted, but this was a service job for those most basic of services. It catered to customers on a…personal level. Getting paid each night depended on his ability to generate a spark of interest, be it sexual or intellectual. Whatever the customer wanted, Tarn would have to supply. 

Call this a teaching experience, however queasy it made him feel. The energon Swerve had all but poured down his throat roiled in his tanks, but it wasn’t going anywhere. _He_ wasn’t going anywhere. He was here to learn. 

So he swallowed hard and took notes on technique. Jazz offered warm welcome on all fronts, body language open and easy, invitation written large across his playful smile. One relaxed hand had come up, the back of the fingers brushing up Tarn’s arm before idly toying with the thick treads on his shoulder. Bending forward let the Jazz tilt his head to meet Tarn’s optics, a sultry look that smoldered as hot as the stick burning on the table behind him. Doors tipped back at a jaunty angle that accented sleek black-and-white curves, stripes of red and blue playing hide and seek with the low lighting. The glimpses of color invited optics to follow as they ran over Jazz’s hood. He looked like temptation personified, dangerous as only lethal weapons could be, and Tarn’s throat intakes worked dryly as his optics finished their exploration and snapped back upward.

Too late. The seductive look had turned penetrating. Jazz had seen his optics wander and taken note of everywhere they’d lingered. That would likely be used against him at some point.

Tarn hadn’t felt this conflicted about being turned on since the first time he heard a certain gladiator speak in Kaon. If this mech weren’t, well, _Jazz_ , he’d find the whole experience intensely erotic. An attractive blackmailer, a perfect friendly mask layered over deadly threat, and every combat protocol screaming that he was exposed, his defenses were down, get away before it was too late. He had to disengage target lock at the same time he denied an activation request from his interface hardware. 

Whatever Jazz saw made his smile widen, but the training walk-through went on without a hitch. “Customer likes your look, you take a seat.” The manipulative fragger melted onto the couch, cozying up. “And then one of you waves a waiter over. They light it, and ta-daa! You’re on the clock. It’s easy. Don’t do it yourself,” the black-and-white warned him, sternly wagging a finger but keeping the guileless smile as he curled around Tarn’s arm, ruthlessly snuggling it. “It’s like the stick itself: house sells ‘em to us so we can’t cheat. We all got the same timers running, that way. The house monitors when and who starts a stick to keep track of the bill, just like they track drink tabs. Just gotta kinda discreetly lift your hand like so,” an easy recline back, one hand going up as if to signal the bar for another drink, “and one of the waiters’ll hop to it. They’re on the look-out for that anytime a host sits. You’ll take your turn at it ‘less you’re real popular, so you’ll pick up the trick of spotting a hand go up.” 

Jazz dropped his hand, wrapping it back around Tarn’s arm. His entire front pressed along the tankformer, shoulder to wrist, one big hand held captive in his lap trying very hard not to feel up his thigh. Size or armor density made no difference against an attack like this. A score of pop-ups crowded Tarn’s HUD, and he deleted them hurriedly. No on the weapons, definitely no on interface hardware activation, and yes, he knew exactly how many degrees his core temperature had risen, thank you very much! 

Sitting stiffly upright, he permitted the small groundframe to wrap around his arm. Proximity alarms bleated warning, insisting imminent threat, but there were no enemies here. They were playing their parts, customer and host, and Jazz nestled in so close a weapon wouldn’t be necessary if it came to that. Which it wouldn’t. Tarn had no intention of stepping out of line. He refused to give Jazz cause -- or excuse.

After an excruciatingly long period of clinging, Jazz finally relented. He sat up a bit and pointed to bring attention back to the stick burning in the centerpiece. “Here’s where you start t’ make money. Waiter comes over an’ lights this, you automatically get that first notch as your host fee even if y’don’t stay the whole time. It’s good manners to stay, but sometimes the night’s too busy or the client just loses interest. Things happen.” 

The first notch from the tip was only a thumb-length down. Tarn studied the burning stick, trying to estimate time as the ember ate down toward the next notch.

“Yeah, see it?” A flick of a wrist produced an unlit stick, and Jazz measured the space between each notch with his fingers. “Time’s up on the first notch. Means the initial sitting fee’s spent. Give or take a minute t’ wrap up conversation and exit gracefully, or else your customer’s gotta pay up the next time fee. Usually by the time y’hit the next notch, the customer’s already made up his mind about purchasing. Keep in mind there’re no fractions. More’n a couple minutes burn by, you get full price. All or nothin’ for the fee. If you -- you the customer, I mean -- dismiss me now or I got another appointment, I still get th’ fee for the second notch.”

What a bizarre method of measuring time as money. “Seems overly complicated,” Tarn said, neutral.

Jazz shrugged, the careless motion rubbing his bumper up and down the inside of Tarn’s elbow. “Seems so, but Swerve was right. It’s sorta hypnotic, watching money burn. I thought it’d be obnoxious when we first opened, but c’mon. What else people got to spend it on? More scrap for their flats? Some polish? Night out? After a while, it’s down t’ buying goods and services anyway. This’s just another kind of night out. Entertainment crossed with personal service. You sit here watchin’ your money burn, but you’re sittin’ next to a fantasy. That’s what we are, y’know? Just -- think of it like a theme park. You spend money on the rides, for as long as you wanna go. You’ve got your favorites, but you change it up sometimes to try ‘em all out.” 

The mental image caused an odd thump in Tarn’s fuel pump. He couldn’t even look at Jazz, and his fans clicked as they tried to turn against lockdown. 

“We’re paid companions, and we’re here to give our customers the best time possible.” The words seemed pointed, aimed at Tarn in particular, and now Tarn _really_ couldn’t look at him. “They know it. We know it. Everybody here’s buildin’ an escape for whoever walks through the door. We make a different world in here. Ain’t therapy, ain’t drinkin’ with friends at a bar, but after so long fighting...” 

He trailed off. Tarn eyed him from the corner of his optic without turning his head. Abruptly somber, Jazz watched the stick burn down toward the third notch. His fingers tapped on Tarn’s forearm. Tarn squinted as the suppression chip fought threat assessment, but the automatic twitch away made the small Autobot hold on tighter. 

“Customers get exactly what they pay for here, no disguises. They’re payin’ for attention. They’re payin’ us to put up with ‘em, to listen to ‘em, to make ‘em feel good. Mechs come here ‘cause they want a night out without having to paint on a happy face for their friends, or ‘cause they wanna be catered to by attractive, interesting people. To talk to somebody who ain’t gonna gossip or judge.” Jazz glanced up at the Decepticon. “There’s a NonDisclosure Agreement in the employment contract, by the way. Y’ have t’ sign it t’ get the job.”

Tarn looked away, focusing on the bar and its ridiculous list of drink prices. “I’ll sign it.” 

“Mmhm. Don’t think Swerve won’t sic a lawyer on you if you blab.” 

Delivered in a playful tone, it was an almost pleasant reminder not to forget his place. It twisted a verbal knife directly into Tarn’s tender pride.

Vos would like Jazz’s style. Subtle control had a peculiar kind of sadism to when applied to someone used to power. Such as, say, a former commandant. 

“I don’t think a lawyer will be necessary,” Tarn said quietly. A lawyer wouldn’t need to do more than turn up the Justice Division’s false registry under assumed names to destroy them.

“Just a friendly warning.”

Right. Friendly. Like a gun held to a hostage’s head. “Of course.”

He was no position to cause trouble. He’d keep his mouth shut, although the threat of a lawyer seemed unnecessary. He couldn’t imagine he’d want to discuss work with anyone. Explaining this job to the rest of his unit sounded daunting enough. 

Optics drifting back to the table and the burning stick in its centerpiece, he pretended he didn’t feel warm plating shift against his arm, Jazz wriggling until he could rest his helm against tank treads. Tarn knew now why Soundwave kept in contact with this mech. He understood completely. As much faith as he had in Soundwave’s underground network, he wouldn’t bet on anyone evading Jazz if the saboteur went hunting. Post-war Cybertron hadn’t been kind to Decepticons trying to avoid capture, and if the war had taught Tarn anything, it was that anyone could be humbled. Jazz probably had Soundwave eating out of the palm of his hand.

And here was Tarn, all but pleading for a handout as well.

Why, oh why, couldn’t Jazz have been a Decepticon? A perfect little killer, tempting and dangerous and crossing his legs to trap Tarn’s hand between white thighs --

Heat blossomed through Tarn’s systems on the heels of shrieking alarm, and white noise blanketed his thoughts as the suppression chip viciously damped combat protocols.

Wholly unnerved, Tarn watched the stick burn as Jazz settled. The suppression chip smushed the urge to open fire, but he didn’t dare move his hand. He wished it felt numb, but right now it was feeling rather more than he wanted. No wonder Swerve had commented on his deficient polish. From the feel of things, hosts buffed their plating daily. 

Once Jazz was comfortable, the Autobot followed his gaze and picked up the training as though nothing had happened. “Each notch burned gets marked down by the house. Transaction’s complete when you snip the end right above the next notch.” 

Tarn somehow stiffened further as Jazz sat forward, thighs sliding together around his hand. It was an informative experience.

Distracting! It was distracting!

One of the centerpieces’ decorative pieces revealed itself to be the hilt of a low-power vibroknife. Tarn forced himself to watch Jazz pull it out. A deft cut, and the burning ember clicked off the tip of the stick. 

Jazz flicked it to the floor and ground it out with the tip of his foot. “Like so. Your time goes on the customer’s tab. Customer pays the house. End of the night, Swerve tallies everything and pays out to us: host fees, your cut for drinks, specialty snack trays, private rooms or performances your customers bought -- remind me, we gotta decide what you charge per song -- “

“I’m not going to sing.”

“What, not even a private performance? What can you do, then? Can you dance? Play board games? Do tricks?” Jazz turned a wry smile up at the Decepticon when Tarn jerked away, offended. “Sit. Stay. Good Decepticon!”

His hand was free, but Tarn hid relief under offense. “I’m not a trained cyberhound!“

“Put th’ brakes on, mech. That voice is your big thing; you know it, I know it. I got no idea what other talents you’ve got for sale.“ 

His mouth snapped shut on a protest, a waterfall of hot embarrassment and cold indignation pouring down his back struts. Talents? Surely Jazz didn’t mean a list of _interfacing skills?_ That kind of price list was too crude to exist.

But if that was what sold, then it had to be put up on offer. Slagging _Pit_.

A knowing grin quirked the corner of Jazz’s mouth. “Me, for instance. I do one stage performance per night, paid for by the house, but I got customers who’ll pay for more by the song or by time on stage. I dance, too, with or without accompaniment.” Half his visor flashed a wink. “Music, I mean. Or people. Heh. Sometimes I gotta turn down private room performances or y’ won’t see me on the floor the whole night.” He stretched in a long, slow, luxurious arch over the back of the couch. The side of his arm stroked past Tarn’s shoulder and treads, and wrist joints flexed in circles like the Autobot didn’t have a care in the world. “It’s a living.”

Tarn gaped at him. White noise fizzed softly in his audios as he tried to take that in. Processing the words hurt his head. “I’m sure.”

“So think ‘bout singing, yeah? Thing is, performance fees are on charged top of regular host fees. The more I perform, the more I take home. Plus, get the two of us on a stage, we’ll have t’ sweep tips off the floor.” When Tarn didn’t speak up, Jazz shook his head to dismiss the topic for now. “Anyway, money. You remember how much we get for drinks?”

Could he forget? The drink list glowed in Tarn’s mind with the light of overpriced luxury, promising easy money. He hoped. “A quarter of each drink sold.”

“Right. That includes anything the customer buys for you, which’s how you should be gettin’ your drinks through the night.” Jazz fell into a lecturing cadence at odds with the amusement in his visor. “You wanna turn a profit at this gig, customers should be buyin’ anything you consume on the premise. But maybe not ‘til you get your reserves built up. You got anything left?” 

His reserves were nonexistent. His main tank held everything he had left, mere fumes before Swerve’s unwanted generosity earlier had fed more in. Mortification stalled his engine. He, former Decepticon, feared warden and unit commander, had next to nothing left, be it pride, belongings, or fuel, and if Jazz pushed the question, Tarn would have no choice but to admit that fact out loud for the Autobot’s sadistic pleasure.

Shame swelled his throat closed around a knot of what he refused to call fear. His tanks squeezed, fuel gurgling in a purge threat.

Underneath it all were the word he wouldn’t say: _Please. Don’t do this._

Out of mercy or perhaps impatience, Jazz blew off the question. “Nevermind. Don’t worry ‘bout it. Swerve uses a decent midgrade for the house blends. I’ll arrange somethin’.” A charming smile flashed up at Tarn. “Employee discount. The house’ll sell you energon outta the distillery until you get rolling. Buy as much as you want so long as you ain’t resellin’ it. I know what the going rate for fuel is on the street, so don’t do that ‘less you want your supply cut off cold. Might cut a couple other things off while I’m at it.” For a split second, an assassin sat pretty on the couch full of sweetness, light, and sabotage. His charm had hard edges that sliced like a knife. “You don’t wanna try playing me for a fool, Tarn.”

Wide red optics looked down into a sinister blue visor, and Tarn floundered in horrible, humbling gratitude as he stared. Justifiable and expected threat aside, Jazz had just swept the floor out from under him via kindness. Manipulative kindness likely intended to sink Tarn deep in his debt and keep him under his wheels, but kindness nonetheless. Depending on how much of a discount Jazz arranged, buying fuel here to take back to his unit could be cheaper than anything they could find to buy down in the sublevels. Tarn had no doubt it would taste better. Compared to the grade of energon they currently consumed, whatever base fuel Swerve’s distillery used would taste like condensed starlight. 

Pride curdled in his throat, solid and sour. Tarn struggled to speak around it. Words of gratitude fell apart in his vox box. His throat closed, but he kept trying. He didn’t want the slagging Autobot to withdraw the offer because of a perceived lack of gratitude. Stripped of his absolute hatred for relying on anyone, much less an Autobot, he appreciated the help. Truly, he did. He just didn’t _like_ it. 

He managed a nod. It’d have to do.

Vents chuffed amusement, but Jazz let him off the hook by continuing Intro to Hosting 101. “Now, I’m not sayin’ some of us can’t turn a profit drunk, but don’t let customers pressure you into drinkin’ more or faster than you burn. Shouldn't be a problem for a mech your size, but I’m just sayin’: getting fendered every night’s a bad idea.” Doors moved along the couch back in a shrug, sliding against tank treads. “Only one who gets away with that is Trailbreaker, and he’s gotta broken fuel regulator as an excuse. Between that an’ how he burns energy, we let him drink what he wants. Besides, he’s kinda hilarious when he’s overcharged. He changes his name and everything.” 

Jazz gave him a significant look, and Tarn made a mental note to never, ever get drunk enough to refer to himself by his previous names. Drinking had never been a vice of his, but he hadn’t had a morphing addiction before he got hooked, either. Better safe than sorry.

“Soooo yeah. You get a quarter of the drinks, third of the snack trays, half the private room rentals. We’ve got five rooms upstairs ‘bout this size,” Jazz gestured around the cubby, “and two bigger ones. Small ones are pricey, but they’re booked solid on our busy nights. You get a customer who wants privacy, tell him t’ call ahead.” Another shrug. “They’re first-come, first-serve, otherwise. Bigger rooms generally rent out to groups of people for special occasions.” 

Mask or not, Tarn knew he looked as taken aback as he felt. His helm snapped back until his neck cables creaked. Groups of people? Mechs did that? It was an option? How did…how exactly did someone go about arranging a ‘special occasion’ like that? Did a bunch of mechs just get together after work and decide that tonight was the night to rent someone for a gangbang? Was that the sort of party the upper class had on a regular basis? Even as Senator Shockwave’s student, he’d known a great deal of the rich noblemechs’ opulent lifestyle remained hidden, but how had he been this ignorant? 

So many questions, so few answers. Shock-wide optics darted around the room as Tarn’s fuel pump stuttered. One or two mechs stood by the bar, employees or early customers, and he eyed them warily, thoughts running wild. Curious optics eyed him right back, and he whipped around on the couch to face the table, anxiety flushing through his lines like a burst of coolant hitting hot internal systems. His throat intakes worked in a nervous swallow. 

It hit him suddenly that he would have to sell himself. Literally sell himself, pushing his ‘services’ as though he was an extra cable package tacked onto an infonet deal. Those mechs at the bar could be bought and sold like chattel, and soon he’d be right there beside them hoping someone wanted to pay money for him.

The tankformer wrestled his reaction down to subtle jitters. Jazz watched. A smile spread slow and satisfied beneath that laughing blue visor. “Rooms pay **good** , but it takes a lot more to get a private room than just a casual conversation, if y’know what I mean.”

Vent slat crimped shut in anger and embarrassment, Tarn pushed a question out. “How are the rooms rented?”

“Wave a waiter down, he’ll clear it with Swerve, and then he’ll come back t’ escort you upstairs.” Jazz tipped far, far back, slouching into the couch like he couldn’t be more relaxed. “Or do you mean how they’re charged? Just like a performance: you’re paid your host fee, and th’ room fee’s on top of that. Now, if you’re givin’ a private performance, that means you get paid a host fee, the room fee, **and** a performance fee. But you say you won’t be singing, so you won’t be gettin’ performance fees.”

“I won’t?” Innocence spread over Jazz’s face, but Tarn wasn’t fooled in the least. His intakes were choking him, he swore they were, but the _not knowing_ had him strung out. He had always been one for facing challenges head-on. This one was no different, no matter how squeamish he felt pushing the question. “What…exactly is included in a host’s fee?”

The angelic smile morphed into an evil smirk. “Oh, y’know. The usual.” Before Tarn could do more than clench his fists, temper roused, Jazz shrugged and sat forward to prop his elbows on his knees. One hand reached out to cup around the stick still stuck in the centerpiece. “You’re a new host. No competition for your company yet, so your time’s cheaper ‘til we see there’s demand. Give it a few weeks for word to get out, judge how you’re doing, and we’ll check price on supply. The point’s to even out your time versus customers lookin’ to buy it.” Digging the tip of his thumb into a notch, he held it up to illustrate what he was saying. “Every notch is the same price: you, me, anyone. But the more notches per stick, the more money y’get for less time.”

“I’m popular,” he said shamelessly, “so the house and I agreed to up me t’ eight notches: a quarter shanix per fifteen minutes. You’ll start at two notches, but you’re gonna have one whole stick in your first pack that’s nothin’ but five minute markers. That’s what you’re gonna light when you first sit down, not a regular stick.” He moved his thumbtip down to show the five minute mark. “It’s like, ahhhh…hmm. A sample. You’re new, right? Our clientele are kinda on the richer side, but not all of ‘em. Some of ‘em spend a good chunk of their disposable income here ‘cause they want a stress-free good time when they go out t’ party. They’re not gonna risk having you sit down if they gotta pay upfront for an unknown. Nobody knows you yet. This way, they’ll get a free trial before they gotta shell out for your time.” 

That sounded horrible. A lot could happen in five minutes if those mechs wanted to ‘sample’ him.

However, Tarn’s mind shied away from that line of thought, barely registering it before pushing it aside to deal with later. A more important detail had jumped out at him. He couldn’t have heard that right. No, he had to have misheard. 

He should ask just to check. Voice weak, he said, “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I heard you correctly. **How** much is each notch worth?” 

The Autobot didn’t look at him, but his doors raised and lowered in a shrug. “A quarter shanix.” Jazz’s musical voice took on a strange overtone, an almost reassuring note, although he kept his visor on the stick he twirled between his fingers. “If a customer likes you and invites you t’ stay past that five minute preview deal, you’re gonna get paid a quanix per hour for your time. Plus drinks sold an’ all that.” 

The club rustled to life, early employees setting up the stage and tidying tables, but they were quiet as of yet. Swerve talked loudly in the background, but he was a constant baseline Tarn had already learned how to tune out. Jazz ran silent the way one would expect of a former Special Operations agent. Evidently his engine purred only when he made an effort to be seductive.

The quiet rang. It vibrated through Tarn’s head. His vision fitzed like he’d taken a blow, but it was shock. Complete, flabbergasted shock that stole the air from his vents and left his mouth working soundlessly behind his mask. 

A quarter shanix per hour. _He could earn three shanix in one shift._ Four whole shanix if Swerve ran the nightclub by factory shifts instead of office shifts, sixteen hour workdays that nobody in the menial class could protest for fear of being fired. Complaining meant immediate termination. Mechs in the lower sublevels lined up for the privilege of replacing anyone who complained about hours, or pay, or _anything_ , because the available jobs were miserable but unemployment was worse. Tarn knew that full well. He’d worked a job in the sublevels before the war, fumbling through his new life as an empurata, expelled from the Jhiaxian Academy and desperate to stay out of the Senate’s sight. Until Shockwave recruited him, Damus had worked a dead-end, abusive job just like so many Decepticons did today. 

Tarn’s unit had filled out more than its fair share of applications for those jobs since the war ended. Tesarus and Helex were lucky to have hired on at the recycling plant near the edge of Iacon, out past where the many city layers flattened out. The commute took time, but the plant had an agreement with the government to hire Decepticons. As long as neither titan badmouthed their working conditions, they almost had job security. That was something nobody in the sublevels took for granted. 

The two of them worked double shifts when there was enough work, and they earned a quarter shanix _each_ as reward for their utter exhaustion afterward. A quanix per double shift was decent pay, in the sublevels. Kaon’s former job doing electrical and communication equipment repairs had brought in a salary of two shanix per week. Tarn had been an excellent salesmech working at the call centers; he’d brought in another one to two shanix on good weeks. When the whole unit had been working, payday had made them feel rich. Guiltily so, compared to their neighbors.

The value of Cybertronian shanix had plummeted during the war as inflation skyrocketed, and pay hadn’t caught up to prices in this post-war world. It might not ever as long as labor stayed cheap and readily available. Major corporations held the power, bribing Senators to protect big business over workers’ rights. Which was, sadly, how it’d always been. The government had always backed the businesses, and Tarn didn’t think well of the Orion Pax he’d once fought beside every time the brand new Prime failed to change the status quo. 

While the hours had gotten worse, the pay hadn’t been much better for menial workers before the war. Since fighting the system hadn’t worked, mechs in the sublevels just put their heads down and slogged on.

Of course, theoretically, with the Functionalist Council out of power, any frametype could apply for any job, now. People could apply for the jobs they were qualified for instead of the jobs they were deemed fit for due to their builds. Tarn and Kaon had done exactly that, right up until they were fired. Vos was attempting it by studying for the teaching exam. Until he could take the exam, however, the D.J.D. had to make a living somehow. 

If they’d been able to scrape together enough shanix to move after he and Kaon were fired, Tarn might have resettled his unit in Praxus or Helex. Those cities had work in construction, even though the jobs were back-breaking manual labor. It was paying work, which was more than half the unit could find in Iacon. They could have slowly amassed the teaching examination entrance fee for Vos. It would have also given the unit a stable employment history for their resumes. 

Instead, they couldn’t afford to move and were barely getting by, tanks perpetually on empty. Tesarus and Helex supported the entire unit. Tarn and Kaon were desperate for work. Tarn still guided them, but he sometimes thought the others stuck to him for lack of any other hope. Pathetic as it might be, the former Decepticon Justice Division clung to a flowchart plan for the future, because Tarn had always been an organized mech who operated best inside a bureaucracy. His systematic approach to hope was their dismal attempt to prove the war hadn’t been fought for nothing.

If they could just pay Vos’ entry into the teaching examination, if he earned a teaching certification, if he could prove that the Decepticon Cause had been more than a dream that’d wasted lives on the battlefield…if if if. It wouldn’t bring Lord Megatron back. It wouldn’t overturn the Senate. But it might make a difference, some day. A professor’s salary could support the rest of the unit as they sought better work. Once they had salaries of their own, they could reach out to the other Decepticons struggling to get by on fuel dregs and minimum wages. They could support mechs who lost their factory jobs while applying and interviewing for better employment. With luck and a solid teaching contract, Vos would be probably earn a discount on education credits, too. Sending someone through the Academies would cost more than any one of them could make, but as a unit? 

As a unit, they could make a difference. One mech at a time, they could help their fellow Cybertronians build toward a better life.

It wasn’t overthrowing a corrupt government and installing their own, but Tarn refused to let Lord Megatron die in vain. This was the best plan he could think of with to work within the new Senate and Prime’s revised laws. Maybe, just maybe, Optimus Prime’s government wouldn’t be quite as rotten as the previous Primes’. Tarn doubted that from what he’d seen so far, but loyalty to the Cause wouldn’t allow him to give up. 

All of which ran through Tarn’s mind in fast forward as the ludicrous number Jazz threw out sank in. His fans buzzed, cooling whirring processors, and his optics widened until white slivers peeked around the red. Three shanix could buy half a tank of energon each for the unit _and_ pay this week’s rent. Government subsidized housing rent was lower, but it still had to be paid. He had almost been on his knees this morning begging the building superintendant for an extension on next week’s rent. Helex had needed to take a day off so self-repair could fix a short in one of his heating coils, and a single missed shift had torn through the unit’s budget like a bullet through tinfoil. They had nothing stashed away for emergencies anymore. There had been too many emergencies and not enough employment to replenish spent savings.

But now Tarn had the opportunity to earn three shanix a night! Three! His beginning pay would probably be lower than that, what with the whole hulking Decepticon warrior look. That might scare customers the first week, but there was a whole menu to sell to whatever customers _did_ want to buy. And then…

Calculations flew fast and furious through his mind. 

Three shanix would buy the unit energon and pay their rent for a week. If they bought the cheapest swill available, they could stretch it out enough to keep their tanks hovering above empty the whole week. Three more shanix the next night could pay down the late fee for last week’s rent on top of buying Tesarus an appointment at an actual clinic to have his blades adjusted and sharpened. Any leftover money could book an appointment for Helex as well, taking care of the nagging maintenance problems that had been stacking up. By the third night, Tarn’s pay could go toward rent for the next week, paying off their credit fees, and perhaps scheduling badly-needed maintenance sessions for the rest of them. Rinsing clogged filters could only do so much. It’d be bliss to buy new filters, and they’d be able to afford better energon that wouldn’t need as much filtering. 

The next payday, the whole unit would be able to start dropping money into savings for Vos’ examination fee. Vos would be able to study uninterrupted. Kaon wouldn’t have to spend his days searching for recyclable scrap on the streets to sell for a pittance or, worse, leveraging his empty optical sockets to beg for spare change up-level. Helex and Tesarus wouldn’t have to take double shifts anymore. 

Tarn stared into a suddenly brighter future, distant plans abruptly within reach, and his hands clenched into fists on his knees.

“Hey? Yo, Tarn. Tank’Con. You in there?”

“Yes,” he said, soft and somewhat dazed. Resetting his vox box took the rough edge of hope off his voice, enough that he could pretend it wasn’t obvious. “I…apologize for, ah, fading out like that. I hadn’t realized how much this position paid, and I had to revise some plans. How -- how long are the shifts?” There. Professional, cool, and calm. Also praying for the first time in his life that his job shifts went by industrial labor hours.

For three shanix a shift, he’d sell his body. Maybe not happily, but happiness could be faked. He’d be willing and even eager for the work. Really, what was the difference? Selling a desire to please wasn’t new. That was customer service. Doing it via his interface hardware wasn’t any more degrading than selling his body for manual labor or stifling his personality while working a call center. In the end, it was all work. He felt a vague shame about most of the jobs he’d held, honestly. Bodily violation wouldn’t sting any worse than the humiliations he’d already suffered, and eating his pride night after night here paid better than vidcall sales.

A light touch on his arm brought him out of his thoughts. He offlined his optics and gathered his shredded composure. He owed Soundwave a monumental debt for the job tip, even if it placed him in Jazz’s hands. He owed the Autobot as much as he owed Soundwave. He knew he wouldn’t have been nearly so merciful in Jazz’s place. 

Jazz’s visor held neutrality instead of mockery right now. Tarn made an effort to smile, visible or not, and laid his hand over the much smaller hand on his arm. It was the lamest attempt at a comforting pat in the history of Cybertron. His fingers stayed stiff, but he tried. He tried, and he didn’t recoil from the squeeze to his forearm no matter how he wanted to. Wincing inside, he leaned a fraction into Jazz. He planned on being the best employee Swerve could hope for, and that required physical contact he Did Not Want. Time to practice. 

“It’s nothing to be concerned about,” he said. In other words, no, the big bad Decepticon wasn’t going to cause trouble. Look, he would even play nice. 

“Ooookay.” Jazz’s expression remained quizzical, but the black-and-white shook his head. “We run a nightclub shift, so expect t’ work ‘bout two hours longer than professional office hours. A few hours longer if the customers are stayin’ in.” The tank sat up straighter, calculating that in terms of notches burnt, but Jazz took in his pleased reaction and frowned slightly. “Government office hours, I mean. Sublevel five and up.” 

Tarn gave him a blank look. What was the difference? Work hours depended on type of business and such, but Tarn was a long way from being Senator Shockwave’s student. He didn’t know the Senate’s hours anymore.

The sublevels of Iacon were nearly separate worlds, the surface city far different than the lower areas. People tended to stick to the levels where they worked and lived. The Decepticons lived in the government-subsidized apartments deep in the sublevels, working jobs located even further down in the strata. Tarn’s unit hadn’t gone above sublevel nine since reporting for their Iaconian residence permits. Tarn had needed to check the transport lines for his transfer today, unsure of where precisely sublevel eight’s entertainment district was. The up-levels were a mystery. 

Jazz looked up at him. A brief flash of what might have been concern crossed his face, but it faded into an easy smile before Tarn could nail the emotion down. “Ten hour shifts, Tarn. Y’sign up for at least three nights a week, plus one weekend shift. You can pick up more if y’want, but it goes on the schedule the week before. We’re gonna sit you down for a photo and profile t’ put in the catalog, too, and that’ll get you reservations soon as you start buildin’ a customer base. How open are you t’ off-shift appointments? House allows reservation booking if customers schedule ahead.”

The words came through a static buzz in Tarn’s audios. A ten hour shift? The Senate worked eight hour days?

That meant --

His fuel pump pushed ice through his tubes, chilling him from the inside out. Tarn stared down at the Autobot without seeing him as Cybertron fell to the side, throwing his mind against his helm and ripping the blinders off his optics. The old Senate had lived in obscene luxury compared to the rest of Cybertron’s populace, but that had been before the war. He hadn’t known -- believe it or not, he’d had a scrap of hope that the Prime who had once been Orion Pax would remember the long, exhausting shifts even police officers had pulled back before the war.

To find out now that the upper levels worked half the hours for six times the pay of a sublevel worker extinguished that unspoken hope. The unfairness stuck in Tarn’s filters. How entirely wrong it was ached in his spark. He couldn’t even articulate in his mind how sick it made him that the Decepticons had fought and died for Lord Megatron’s dream, for the Cause, and _nothing had changed_. The rich continued to rest on the backs of the oppressed. The sublevels slaved for the benefit of the upper strata. Tesarus was docked an entire shift’s pay if he took half a shift off to get his gears aligned, and a slagging _waiter_ got _days off._

Waiter. Whore. Host. Whatever the job title was. It earned far more than any sublevel worker hoped to bring home from an honest job, and this club had nothing honest about it. It was an expensive fantasy patronized by mechs rolling in excess shanix stolen via the exploitation of cheap labor from the abused masses. 

The suppression chip hissed and spat interference, white noise breaking up the vengeful fury triggering his combat protocols. He had waited too long to join the Decepticons. He’d believed Senator Shockwave’s words for too long, followed the bright lies spouted by Orion Pax instead of opening his optics to the truth exposed by what had actually _happened_ to Shockwave. _That_ was what he should have believed. Shockwave had turned to a gladiator, turned away from his support of Orion Pax, and Tarn should have followed his example then and there. He had wasted so much time hesitating.

And Lord Megatron hadn’t gone far enough. The Decepticons shouldn’t have held back so much. Yes, there had been hope to change Cybertron without destroying it and rebuilding, but Orion Pax and the fragging neutrals who’d stood by as if they were above everything being fought for -- they were an infection, a rotting disease. Tarn ached, he wished so dearly that Lord Megatron had simply wiped the planet clean. Only genocide of those who stood against the Cause could have cured Cybertron of this plague. Look what happened when something remained to regrow.

The Decepticons should have exterminated everyone in their path immediately. No time to choose sides or be persuaded by ideology. They should have just killed the planet and let history sort them out.

Tarn shut off his optics and concentrated on regulating his erratic ventilations. He’d take the job and use the money, but choking down the inherent unfairness hurt. A tar-burn glob of helpless rage oozed down his throat. The Decepticons had lost. He couldn’t do anything to change how the world was but work for a potential better future.

“You wanna let my hand go?” Friendly as the question sounded, the sharp glare accompanying it could puncture steel, and Tarn was reminded all over again who this small mech really was.

His fingers’ tight grip had dented Jazz’s hand. Tarn released Jazz, but even he couldn’t tell if it was because of the request or because the Autobot’s touch repulsed him. Both were equally likely at this point. Without so much as a token attempt to disguise the move as a casual shift, he recoiled, pushing down the couch out of reach. He didn’t want corruption smothering him anymore than it had to.

“Thanks,” Jazz said, rubbing his knuckles. He peered up at the tankformer, visored gaze seeing too much, but Tarn pretended fierce interest in the table’s centerpiece. “Huh. So, ‘bout those shifts..?”

“I’ll take whatever work is available,” he grated out. “Doesn’t matter what time of day or night. If there’s work, I’ll be here.” Hating himself for perpetuating an economic and social system he opposed, but he’d be here. Appointments outside of regular business hours would help, and he’d take any that came up. A ten hour shift would give him two and a half shanix at most, probably less, but it depended on what he could push in refreshment sales.

The future darkened and drew further out of reach. The path to it looked pretty ugly.

Jazz snorted. “If you wanna show up every night and work two shifts a day on th’ weekends, you just gotta get on the schedule the week before. We try t’ keep the number of hosts ‘round ‘bout ten per shift, but we gotta double that on our busy nights. We’re hirin’ ‘cause Swerve wants to boost us to fifteen a shift. We’re gettin’ slammed.”

Tarn refused to look at him. Dipping his chin in a shallow nod, he asked, “Swerve pays the hosts at the end of the night?”

“Every night. No worries about payday, yeah?” 

No scrambling to make it until payday, he meant. Tarn’s head jerked to the side, optics shooting to the small mech. That was either extraordinarily insightful, or Jazz knew what it was like to live from week to week. 

The Autobot was looking out at the rest of the club, however, leaning back in a casual slump across the couch. “House pays out in full at the end of every shift, but hosts pay a house fee by buyin’ these,” he wagged an unlit stick, “by the pack. The more notches you rate, the higher the cost. I’m at eight notches, and I pay ‘bout ten shanix for a pack. You’ll pay two for yours, I think.”

Air sputtered as Tarn’s fans hitched. “…I don’t. That is, I.” He didn’t have two shanix. The Justice Division had an eighth of a shanix total right now, and it was in the possession of Kaon. He was on the lookout for a cheap fuel vendor during his scavenging today.

Behind the mask, his face twitched as panic stung his spark. Snarling hate of the business and its clientele aside, fear welled up the back of his throat at the idea of not getting this job. Shame poured molten lead into his tanks close behind. Frag his life. 

His vox box crackled. He reset it and tried again. Words stuck in his throat. He _needed_ this job, needed money to _start_ this job, but the mechanisms of throat and mouth glued themselves together in a useless lump.

He had to get words out. Tarn had to admit the depths of his poverty to this smug glitch in the hopes that he could, if he wheedled, borrow some money.

Still looking at the club instead of the Decepticon paralyzed in agonized internal conflict beside him, Jazz waved a hand. “Don’t worry ‘bout your first pack. You get that one free.”

Air burst out in a rush, and Tarn croaked, “You -- !”

A perfectly innocent visor glanced up at him. “What?”

He’d done that on purpose, the bumper-humping, waste spill-licking, greaseblotch _Autobot_. “ **Nothing.** ” His jaw worked. “ **Thank** you.” That wasn’t bitter at all, no, of course not.

“Don’t thank me. Thank Swerve. He waived your fee.” A well-timed blink, and Jazz canted his head to the side to smile sweetly. The face of a saint beamed up at the Decepticon. “Guess he thought you prob’bly can’t afford much of anything if y’can’t fuel yourself properly.”

Appalled horror swept the rage away and left Tarn gaping, embarrassment dripping hot down the inside of his chest. Because the only thing that could make begging an Autobot for a loan the better option was being such a pathetic failure that he had _‘Charity Case’_ stamped in invisible glyphs across his mask. 

He’d thought he would never be any more humiliated than he’d been the day Darkmount surrendered. He’d been wrong. 

He owed Soundwave for the job tip, grudgingly owed Jazz for the chance to even apply for this job, and he resented the gratitude he felt toward them. What he felt for Swerve was a confused, sucking hole in his chest that he wanted to crawl into and drag in behind him, never to be seen or mentioned again. He _owed_ the insufferable minibot. 

The uncomfortable urge to squirm grew. He stuffed it down under his spark to fester. It’d have plenty of time to torment him later while he thanked Swerve. Which he would. Repeatedly, until he’d paid back his steadily mounting debt to the despicably generous chatterbox. His unit was simply too poor to do otherwise, slag his treads, so he’d accept being Swerve’s charity case with humility and gratitude.

Tarn carefully unclenched his fists, making an effort to lace the fingers together in his lap. They shook with frustrated anger. His throat felt lacerated by the words he pushed out of it. “I appreciate his thoughtfulness.”

“Yeah, he’s a real nice guy when he’s not talkin’ around his foot.” Jazz idly twirled the stick, putting an elbow over the couch back. “So, you got any questions for me, or should we get that picture an’ profile done now? Night’s young, but I think you’d be better off startin’ tomorrow when you’re,” he gave Tarn a once-over, visor lingering on dull, unpolished armor, “prepared. You’re welcome t’ stick around the bar and watch how things work, though. Not expectin’ a busy night. I’ll spread the word for the others to introduce themselves, maybe give you a few tips on hosting.”

Shame already had his shoulders hunched, so the pointed look at the state of his finish didn’t do much. Tarn hesitated, wondering if there would ever be a less awkward time to bring this up. Probably not. “The other hosts will be…alright with me watching?” The main floor had little privacy, obviously, but the cubbies were partially screened off. The darkness within could hide many sins. The couches were wide and cozy, encouraging close contact and likely more than that.

“Sure.” Jazz grinned. “Well, don’t walk over and stare, but waiters walk everywhere checkin’ the sticks. If you stay the whole night, maybe Swerve’ll let you grab a tray and bus tables. It’ll give you time t’ memorize the layout, get a feel for the menu, an’ see how we do things here. Just remember you’re here to help the other hosts along when you got a tray. Waitstaff don’t sell. When you’re waitin’ tables, you’re there to be the invisible help. Slip in an’ out. Don’t interrupt, don’t make optic contact -- frag, don’t even exist.” 

A bubble of hope gurgled in Tarn’s tanks. Would he get paid if he worked tonight? Even if it was just spare change from cleaning tables, money was money.

…this was how low he had fallen.

He rubbed his thumbs together and cycled a long breath. He was procrastinating again, delaying the inevitable. 

“I did want to ask what, ah. What exactly is…er, included in the host fee versus what’s, uh, considered a performance.” He hated his graceless verbal stumbling, but at least the words were out. It was a necessary query despite how even thinking about it made his cables kink. 

If he had to sell himself, he might as well get full price for a premium frag. When he was fully fueled and didn’t have to worry about reining in his need to transform frequently, there was this one trick he could do while interfacing that was incredibly complicated because he stalled his transformation sequence part way through by running several of his gears backward. He had no idea how to price such a thing.

The Autobot gave him a lopsided grin that turned his HUD into a wall of pop-ups. Danger, alert, target lock, weapons systems initialized!

“Eh. It varies from mech to mech, but hosting’s just talking, flirting, making mechs feel good ‘bout themselves. A listening audio an’ no judging’s the key. More than that, and it’s performance material. Why? You reconsider singin’?”

One optic squinted as the suppression chip stomped his natural aggression, but Tarn still leaned away from the little groundframe. Caution was a code-deep installation. “No. I won’t sing.” Singing was too great a risk. His voice had been notorious once his outlier ability finally attached to it.

Interest bright in his visor, Jazz leaned forward as he retreated. “Oh? Then whatcha got for sale?”

He couldn’t help but fidget. This was _not_ something a genteel mech discussed. “I…ahem. I can transform mid-interface while still -- “

Hands flung up to interrupt him, waving in vigorous protest. An exaggerated expression of shock rounded Jazz’s mouth into an ‘O’. “Noooo no **no** no, whoa, not happenin’, not goin’ there!”

Surprised, Tarn snapped his mouth shut and blinked. Jazz continued to sputter his engine and flail refusal, chanting variations of _‘no,’_ _’don’t wanna know that,’_ and _‘nu-uh.’_ The tankformer watched in bewilderment. 

He started to say something several times, but he was ignored until he managed to wedge a word in edgewise at last. “What? What did I say?” And why were his tanks sinking down to his feet? Was he supposed to be more subtle? How could they even broach the topic in a discreet manner? 

Dread built into a towering unease poised to fall on his head.

“Augh, I did **not** need that mental image,” Jazz muttered, one hand going to his head. “What in Primus’ name gave you the idea we do that here?! We’re hosts, not shareware! Nuts and bolts, mech, you wanna sell that, you arrange it outside th’ club and never tell me ‘bout it!” His voice dropped to a mumble, barely heard. “Know some mech’s do it, ‘cause why not, but come **on**. Don’t need to think ‘bout you doin’…that.” He looked up and shuddered as if imagining it.

Meanwhile, Tarn stared. And stared. Everything done and said since he’d arrived at the club ran through his head in detailed hindsight that did nothing to contradict his assumptions or Jazz’s claims. Not a single word, and wasn’t that a mindfrag and a half?

Oh, Jazz was good. He was better than good. Vos would _idolize_ this sadist.

“You…” Big hands curled into claws on powerful thighs, physically strong and completely worthless because Tarn had been defeated yet again. Out-maneuvered and left disgraced again. Made to admit his blind ignorance and unfounded assumptions out loud for Jazz to chuckle over. “ **You.** ”

“Me, me,” Jazz imitated him. “What about me?”

The massive Decepticon drew himself up, tensed to strut-shaking rage in futile hate, and _glowered_. “You did that on purpose!”

Jazz placed a hand on his chest and stood up to face him, all offended innocence and charm. “I don’t know **what** you’re talking ‘bout.”

Visor to optic, Decepticon to Autobot. A purple mask up against a game face, neither showing what lay underneath. Down in the cerulean depths of Jazz’s visor, a deeply hidden glitter hinted that perhaps Tarn should be grateful Jazz hadn’t gathered a crowd of spectators for this humiliation, or even some customers. The laughter could have been much louder and far more public. Although the D.J.D. had escaped official Autobot justice, the former Head of Autobots SpecOps might not be above some unofficial payback against Commandant Glitch. Jazz had a vicious streak backed by an evil sense of humor, and what was Tarn going to do about it?

“Of course you don’t.” Tarn gritted his teeth and seethed, because he couldn’t do anything but surrender.

 

**[* * * * *]**

 

_[ **A/N:** Thank you, Vintage-Mechanics. Until the curtains rises next time, m’dears.]_


	4. Pt. 4: The more things change, the more things stay the same.

**Title:** White Lies  
**Warning:** Yet another AU where the Decepticons didn’t win the war. There were no last stands. There were no martyrs or hidden rebel cells. There was only defeat and trying to live in the aftermath. Possible dubcon situations. Obviously, the D.J.D. reveal in MTMTE futzed everything in this fic up, so as of 9/14/16 I’m taking down the parts to edit for better alignment in the hopes of continuing past where the divergence stopped me.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Continuity:** More Than Meets The Eye AU  
**Characters:** Decepticon Justice Division, Jazz, Swerve, Pharma  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** There was a beautiful picture by FelixFellow, and then I had an idea. It mutated. TwistyRocks got me to write the first two parts, just to see what happened. Vintage-Mechanics got the third and fourth part!  
Due to the need to write poverty-level Cybertron, I had to make up monetary amounts less than a shanix.  
Shanix  
hanix (half a shanix)  
quanix (quarter shanix)  
einix (eighth of a shanix)  
nix (eight to an einix, sixteen to a quanix, 32 to a hanix, 64 to a shanix)

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Pt. 4: The more things change, the more things stay the same.**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

It amazed him how money could humble a mech.

The money itself wasn’t humiliating. It was a richness. A blessing. A tiny one, a handful of loose change, but Tarn clutched it tight as cables deep in his gut trembled in relief. The cliff of poverty he balanced on retreated a miniscule amount. A step back from the edge felt like the first full breath after fixing a faulty ventilation system. He’d been gasping, and now he could breathe again. Maybe not easily, and the air smelled foul, but anything was an improvement after suffocation, so to speak.

The money didn’t shame him. The pure, unadulterated torrent of relief turning his insides to jelly was the humiliation. A pittance thrown his way wrung him out and left him feeling curiously empty. Money had reduced a proud mech to shuddering gratitude, and Tarn hated that his fans hitched and skipped this way. 

He’d led an elite Decepticon unit. He’d run a prisoner-of-war death camp. He’d had Lord Megatron’s trust. He’d bussed tables tonight, head and shoulders down to look as harmless and far from recent history as he could, and he’d hoped the entire time that he looked servile _enough_.

Fiery threads of embarrassment had run hot under his plating while the club stared and whispered around him, but it’d been worth it. Cleaning up sticky spills and collecting trays of glasses to bring back to the bar had familiarized him with the layout of the club, exposed the patrons to his presence, and served to introduce him to the few brave hosts who dared greet him. He would have done it just for that, but the money, oh the money. The money made everything worth it. 

Fifteen nix had found their way to his hands for his work tonight. 

Fifteen nix was nearly a quarter-shanix. A quanix was a double shift of strut-breaking labor in the recycling plant for Helex and Tesarus, or a full day begging up-level if Kaon milked a particularly soft-sparked area today for hand-outs and recyclables. Decepticons on the industrial shifts exhausted themselves earning half of what Tarn held in his hand right now, yet all he’d done to earn it was keep his mouth shut for a mere eight hours. He’d lifted nothing heavier than a tray of glasses.

The first two hours as the club filled, he’d stayed out of the way at the shadowed end of the bar. The set-up Jazz had described to him made much more sense in practice. He’d watched, fascinated, as money burned. Smiles and optics had gleamed bright amidst wisps of smoke, and there was indeed something seductively hypnotic about the effect. A drugged sense of relaxation seemed to overtake those who’d come through the door, as if worries disappeared the moment they walked in. Tarn understood why the longer he watched the club in action.

Nothing would happen here the customers didn’t expect, and they could pay for the night to go exactly as they wished. The hosts were entertainment in various frametypes, interesting and attractive company lavishing their attention on their buying customers alone. There was no subtle competition for an entertainer, no rivalry over who had the next dance. There was nothing to distract from enjoyment, here. Patrons filled the club, shelling out money to purchase the hosts’ time, and in return, the hosts made their customers the center of their world.

An hour in, Swerve had urged the bar’s two waiters to inch over and introduce themselves in quavering voices barely audible over the music. A couple of hosts risked following their example. Tarn had been courteous, although it took effort to rein in his loathing for their opulent, stupidly excessive lives. He knew it wasn’t fair to judge them based on their jobs, or even on the personalities they showed him. He knew too well how people donned a different set of personality traits to get a job. For all he knew, his fellow hosts were as destitute as the D.J.D. or richer than any customer here. Outside the walls of this club lay the ugly reality of Cybertron, and he had no idea what the people in here were like out there. He’d done his best to keep that in mind. Even if none of the other hosts bore the Decepticon insignia, they might still pass each other on the lower sublevel streets. Blaming them for working here would mean condemning his fellow Decepticons for doing what they had to make ends meet.

Tarn couldn’t trust anything he saw. The club was fiction, a thin surface layer displaying what customers wanted to see. Everyone here was being deceived. They _wanted_ to be deceived. As Jazz had told him: people came here to live a fantasy. The club was an elaborate lie, and the hosts were part and parcel of it. 

Knowing that didn’t make playing nice any easier. He’d stayed as unobtrusive as his massive frametype let him. Warbuilds had become slightly more common up-level, but he’d easily been the largest mech in the club tonight. Uneasy optics had strayed his direction constantly. The hosts had pretended he didn’t exist, for the most part. The customers had outright gawked.

Instead of waiting for the nervous tittering to stop, he’d just waited for the club to get busy. Once the hosts were engaged and the waiters busy lighting sticks and fetching drink orders, no one objected to him picking up a tray. He’d started cleaning tables. 

Gossip had hissed around him wherever he moved, but that was inevitable. He was going to stand out here. They’d probably never stop talking about him, because a tankformer in an upscale club was a spectacle. What he’d wanted was the right kind of gossip. 

Look at the tame Decepticon. Look at him balance a tray of glasses in one hand while wiping down a table for the next customer. How funny. How strange. Off Track had acquired an oddity: a strange, funny, and safe new employee. Not a threat. Not someone to be afraid of. Unique, not frightening. Where else could people go and see a Decepticon bussing tables? 

Swerve had put it crudely, but Tarn wasn’t above exploiting his difference to create interest. He wasn’t going to go out of his way to advertise himself as some sort of domesticated killer, but there was a certain attraction to flirting with danger. Just not _too_ dangerous, or he’d scare patrons away. He had to walk the fine line between intimidating and submissive, dignified but approachable, hardworking without being menial labor.

So he bussed tables. Service drones were more common than waitstaff these days. A real live waiter was a personalized symbol of luxury, a servant of sorts, and it was hard to feel threatened by a visible sign of good service. Tarn whisked away empty glasses before they cluttered tables, pushed in chairs to tidy the floor, and mopped up spills almost the second engex sloshed.

That’s where the money had come from. A nix here and there under an empty glass; half a dozen scattered on the floor between the tables; one or two even flipped to him in passing from customers drunk or daredevil enough to tempt fate. Tarn had fumbled for the credits as they were tossed at him, or peeled them off the floor as subtly as he could when he spotted them. The ones on the tables he’d palmed while shuffling glasses onto his tray. 

Demeaning as janitorial work was, applicants from the sublevels would line up for any job that paid fifteen nix per night. Tarn couldn’t risk assuming he’d earned anything tonight, however. Steeling himself, he poured the tiny pile of change onto the bar after the club closed. 

“I don’t know what the rules are for found money,” he said to the surprised minibot behind the counter. “And I know I’m not officially on the job as of yet.” 

His tanks had a split second to knot up before Swerve shoved the pile back across the bar at him. “No, hey, that’s yours! Keep it, keep it, it’s -- ew, gross.” Congealed engex had smeared across the bar from the credits. “Were those on the floor or something? Yuck.”

Swerve attacked the smear with a polishing cloth. Tarn stood there looking down at him, fist clenched around the money and words falling apart in his mouth. The Autobot was allowing him keep what he’d salvaged out of garbage and spilled drinks. He did and didn’t want to thank Swerve for that. He hadn’t earned this money, but he was being permitted to keep it. That deserved his thanks. He knew it did.

His vox box clicked in his throat. Humiliation stole his voice. Money could humble a poor mech to thanking his oppressors, but it couldn’t take away the sting of bending his neck. 

The talkative bartender paused in tidying up the counter to give him a look. Tarn wouldn’t have thought anything of it if the small Autobot didn’t muse out loud, “Huh, Jazz was right. You’re really scraping the dregs.” 

What? They -- these two Autobot _meddlers_ had _talked_ about him?!

Of course they had, and he should be glad they did. It’d gotten him the job, and the packet of sticks he couldn’t afford on his own, and fifteen nix, and a free cube of energon, and -- and he should be glad they meddled. He should.

Regardless of what he _should_ feel, shame snapped his treads taut. That was as close to recoiling as Tarn would get. 

Swerve seemed to realize how tactless he’d been a second later. “Oh. Uh, I didn’t mean that in a **bad** way. I just mean you don’t have a shanix to your city. Name. City-name.” The mortified, sucking pull at the back of Tarn’s spark chamber worsened, but the Autobot couldn’t seem to stop himself once he got going. “No wonder you look so bad. Empty tanks and, well.” He looked at how Tarn held what, for anybody else in this club, was probably petty cash. One or two nix was loose change. “Yeeeah. So I was gonna shell out something for your help tonight, but Jazz said you might want it out of the distillery instead. That okay?”

Forget money. Survival could knock a mech to his knees every time. Pride was the privilege of the rich. Beggars couldn’t refuse charity. Tarn would accept his good fortune and etch another mark in the invisible scoreboard hung on his spark. Each mark ached like a wound, open gashes to remind him what he owed Jazz. And this minibot. He owed Swerve. 

Tarn swallowed a last, bitter chunk of dignity and forced himself to nod. The slurry of gratitude and hatred sitting heavy on his vox box thickened his voice. “You are too kind. I…I hesitate to impose on your generosity, but yes, I would very much appreciate my earnings in fuel, if at all possible." He wasn't even going to ask how much he'd earned tonight. If he asked, they'd be obliged to go through the polite social ritual protesting being given too much for such easy work. The plating on his back crawled at the thought of going through the motions to preserve face. He had no self-respect left to preserve. At this point, pretending to protest the hand-out would only grind him lower. He couldn't take any more _talking_ about his abject poverty.

Swerve had already given him more than he deserved. The minibot’s kindness left him raw and exposed. The whole night had been a prolonged torture, and Tarn was broken enough to do something he’d never have considered at the beginning of the night. 

Resisting the urge to cringe inside his armor, he held out his handful of scavenged money. "May I use this as well? I, ah, the...people I, ahem," roomed with, was responsible for, had worked with, held authority over, "live with won't be paid until the end of the week. We need anything I can buy." 

There. A hint he needed more without actually begging for it. Not quite, not technically, even though the subtext practically crawled on the floor: please, sir, he had a unit to support. 

Swerve cocked his head, curiosity splayed across his face. “Yeah?”

Tarn’s tanks churned at voluntarily offering personal information to anyone, much less an employer or of all things an _Autobot_ , but the quizzical look on his new boss’s face pressured him to answer. He owed Swerve. His boss wanted to know why he should give an employee anything for fifteen nix, and while Tarn, the employee in question, didn’t _have_ to explain, the debt heaped on his back couldn’t be denied. 

Swerve was loathsomely kind. He didn’t demand Tarn open up about his private life. He probably wouldn’t even be angry with a vague excuse that money was tight this week.

Swerve was giving him _so_ slagging _much_. 

Tarn lowered his optics. “Two of my…friends are unemployed at the moment. One is taking time to study for a teaching exam, and the other is between jobs. They’re both looking for work,” he felt compelled to add. The upper levels seemed to think the sublevel population lazed about living off government welfare. 

Swerve flashed a wide smile Tarn wanted to destroy on sight. “I know how that goes. You live with a teacher, huh? Good for him.” He looked down at the nix in Tarn’s hand. “Y’know what? Keep it. Get a good polish for tomorrow night, and we’ll call it even.” Hot embarrassment poured through the Decepticon’s wires as an obvious once-over reemphasized that his plating was in a state of shabby even the chemist working in the kitchen didn’t sport. “You can come in early tomorrow and help set things up for the night, if you want. Some sweeping and moving stuff around, nothing too hard.” The smile quirked toward concern, still good-humored but worried nonetheless. “There’s some supplies up in one of the rooms meant for polishing sessions. Customers can buy a buffing from anybody who’s open to that. Dunno if you’re any good at that, but, um.” Tarn’s left optic ticked. Swerve’s smile stretched somehow wider. “You can use some of it if you need to. Just off the clock, though. Okay? Don’t want everyone to know I’m giving away what they gotta pay for.”

Tarn certainly didn’t want that, but he didn’t believe there was a chance in the Pit it wouldn’t happen. The Autobot had to recharge in order to power his overactive mouth, so it would take at least two days for word to spread planetwide about Swerve’s new charity case. This wasn’t public humiliation so much as it was publicly _announced_ humiliation. 

Now Tarn knew what the phrase _‘killing with kindness’_ meant. Swerve was slowly drowning him to death in small mercies and good intentions.

“I understand,” he said in a level voice. His fingers curled into a fist around the money while Swerve bustled into the kitchen, and Tarn dimmed his optics. It took tremendous effort to shore up his flagging resolution to accept and be grateful. Keeping his temper in check drained his reserves. The frustrating part was that he had no _reason_ to get angry. The social and economic structure crushing him couldn’t be blamed on one blasted minibot. Swerve was only trying to help, obnoxious as his kindness was. Tarn’s anger at the unfair system soured the minibot’s generosity.

In the back of his mind, there was a box holding the dark urges a powerless mech couldn’t indulge in. Tarn balled up his anger and shoved it hissing and spitting into that black box. It was the only way to endure what he must. The Decepticons had lost the war. He needed this job. Simple, implacable truths to live by.

Also, the shadow of an assassin lurked at the corner of his vision, as it had all night. That was extra motivation to mind his manners. Jazz had been one of the loudest, happiest, most active hosts of the night, and his stage show had brought the whole club to the dance floor. He hadn’t, Tarn had noticed, left the main floor. From what the Autobot had said about his popularity, staying downstairs was unusual. It seemed Jazz didn’t trust the former leader of the Justice Division to behave without someone keeping close tabs on him. 

Spite straightened Tarn’s shoulders. He drew a deep, measured breath, cycling his fans up and slowly throttling them back down. By the time Swerve returned with a bag -- an actual _bag_ \-- Tarn was calm. He was prepared for what he had to do.

He didn’t even look in the bag. Corners strained the thin bag material from how many cubes were stuffed inside, but it didn’t matter how much fuel was in the bag. One cube or ten, he already owed Swerve so much it physically hurt where his power generator hooked up. This kind, frustrating, generous, and utterly dense Autobot had hired him against all reason not to. He was providing for him despite every rule of street and profit. Warnings had to be popping up in the minibot’s HUD, yet he smiled gamely up at Tarn.

Who took the bag and braced himself. “Thank you,” Tarn said, blunt and humble. “I don’t know what else to say. I’m grateful for your help and will repay you as soon as I’m able. I can promise that.” A promise made more to himself than anyone else, but saturated with perfect sincerity. 

Swerve laughed nervously, waving the thanks away. Maybe he’d caught the threat seething behind the gratitude. “It’s not a big deal! Sure, it’s kind of a lot and I dunno if you’re even coming back tomorrow, but it’s not **that** much. It’ll look bad at the end of the week if you’re not earning for the club or take off when the weekend crowd hits, sure, that’s, uh, okay so it’s more than I should hand out in that light, but hey! Nothing risked, nothing gained. It’s fine, it’s fine. Jazz said you needed it, and I can see your paint peeling from here. Guess I’ve got to give to the poor at some point, right? Might as well be now. Better you than some addict on the street. Keep you clean, maybe. Hey, hey, not sayin’ you’re boosting or anything, but everybody knows things happen when a mech gets down that low. You’re -- it’s kind of **there** how little you’ve got. But it’s fine! It’s fine, take it!” He started absentmindedly polishing the bartop. “You need it, I can tell.”

Both hands clenched on the bag, Tarn held it in front of himself like a shield. His throat worked as he tried to process the barrage of words. A distressed whine came from his motor, but Swerve just _kept talking_.

“Always wanted to make a Decepticon friend after the war. I was kind of hoping it’d start on more equal footing, but I guess that’s what I get for putting out an advertisement in the sublevels. Haven’t seen many ‘Cons above the midlevels, come to think of it. Poverty line’s drawn by that thing on your face, these days. Sorry, sorry. That came out wrong, didn’t it? That came out wrong. But you get what I mean, right? I’m not saying you ‘Cons are made for manual labor, but I’m saying I haven’t seen any of you working anything else lately. Gives mechs ideas, is what I’m saying.” His optics and tone dropped, serious despite the too-bright, pell-mell expression stuck on his face as he chattered. “Somebody’s got to make an opportunity for something else. Somebody’s got to offer a second chance. We’ve got too many enemies and not enough friends. Somebody’s got to show it’s possible where it’s allowed. Just don’t let me down, okay? Taking a risk on you, tank’Con. Taking a risk. I’m not sure what kind of return I expect, but I don’t want to throw fuel down a pothole.”

“Yo bossbot, we good for the night?” 

Never had an interruption been more welcome. Jazz slid between the Decepticon and the bar, and Tarn could have hugged the sneaky glitch. He took a hasty step back to give the black-and-white mech room.

Jazz set down a bunch of empty shot glasses as if they were the reason he’d interrupted. “I want to nab Tarn here for his headshot if I can steal him away for a sec.”

Targeting systems spun up and bounced off the suppression chip before Tarn remembered that ‘headshot’ referred to the picture, not the casualty. Oh. Right. He was supposed to get his picture taken for the host catalog at the front desk. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, and he definitely didn’t know what he should submit for the profile paragraph to accompany it. 

On the other hand, he knew for certain that he’d far prefer a photo shoot over listening to Swerve talk.

Swerve seemed willing to release him to Jazz’s tender care. “I almost forgot about that. Yeah, sure, that’s great. Get it done for tomorrow’s opening.”

“That’s the idea. C’mon, Tarn.” 

If Tarn had any pride left, it baled in favor of an undignified escape from the one-sided conversation. Jazz guided him away from the bar by the elbow, and he was positively happy for the escort. He didn’t care what it looked like. He only cared that he was free.

“Looked like you needed a rescue,” Jazz said as soon as they were out of audio range.

“You have no idea,” Tarn said before he could stop himself. “How does he -- does he even **think** about what he’s -- ah.” Right, no bad-mouthing the new boss. He paused and chose his words more carefully. “He has a way of touching on uncomfortable subjects.”

Any of the many embarrassments of the night were open to laughter at his expense. Jazz could have rubbed his face in his status as charity case, or how the former leader of a prestigious military unit was reduced to this. He could have laughed at Tarn’s relief at escaping Swerve’s tactlessness. Tarn knew it, almost expected a response putting him in his place, but the Autobot at his side refrained from comment. He merely nodded and guided the tankformer toward the discreet door tucked in the shadow of the staircase. 

Another spoonful of grudging gratitude ladled into the vile mix marinating Tarn’s spark. 

The silence was a favor, the kind meant to be held over his head as a reminder. Fine. He could handle being under Jazz’s wheels. The mech had a sadistic, poisonous charm that put him in mind of Starscream. He hadn’t _liked_ the Air Commander, but the chain of command had required respect. Anytime Tarn had thought otherwise, Starscream’s twisted, conniving treachery had somehow trapped him into giving it anyway. 

In that light, he could respect Jazz, too. Everything the Autobot did cemented his control over the situation. It was a familiar transaction of hidden threat and silent acknowledgement. Swerve’s generosity had no strings, which was what put Tarn off balance. He floundered for the proper response to real kindness. With Jazz’s mindgames, he knew what to do: stay out of trouble, do his job, and be very aware that his behavior determined whether or not his unit stayed under the radar. 

Jazz glanced down at the bag. “That going to be enough?”

Oh no, he was _not_ giving this mech anything else to stack his debt higher. “It’s more than enough,” Tarn said, ducking his head as they passed through the Employees Only door. Tall as he was, his helm skimmed the lintel. “In case I haven’t yet, by the way, I’d like to thank you for everything.”

“No problem,” the Autobot tossed over his shoulder.

Part of him wanted to end it there, but he made himself go on. “It is a problem. I’m well aware that you could have turned me away at the door. You…likely know how badly I need this job.” A job, any job, but a job that could support his entire unit. “So thank you. I appreciate what you’ve done for me tonight, and I **will** repay you.”

An amused blue visor peered back at him. “Yeah, you do that.”

Tarn huffed quietly. The Autobot could at least _pretend_ to believe him. Decepticons didn’t lie _all_ the time.

Or maybe Jazz just wasn’t an optimist. Tarn could admit that his determination to stay calm was severely tested by the photo shoot. If he hadn’t already surrendered to debt and necessity tonight, the next hour would have ended in murder charges and a destroyed club. Anyone with a scrap of pride left would have lashed out. He didn’t know who this ‘Ligier’ was, but he knew he wanted to rip the mech’s head off five minutes into the conversation. 

Although it couldn’t really be called a conversation by any stretch of the term. The photo shoot turned into an extended series of complaints about how poorly he suited the position, pricking his temper with a hundred sniping comments that weren’t _quite_ insulting, some thoroughly insulting comments tossed in for variety. 

“These are weld-scars. Why hasn’t he had them treated?” Slim, elegant fingers probed where clasps had once secured the mask to Tarn’s face. Welding them shut prevented people exactly like this pretentious fop from unmasking him.

The question, of course, hadn’t been directed at him. Tarn had attempted to defend himself several times now, only to be talked over as if he didn’t exist. In the mind of Ligier, he didn’t. He was an object to appraise, not a person.

Jazz leaned against the table nearby, supervising. Tarn wouldn’t admit it even under interrogation, but he was glad the saboteur had stayed. His presence was a reminder to keep cool, keep calm, and not smash this preening waste of space into spare parts. 

Unfortunately for Tarn’s peace of mind, Jazz’s presence didn’t deter Ligier from pouring a stream of abuse out in bored, put-upon sighs. He’d bet all the shanix he didn’t have that the irritating cogsucker was a noblemech slumming as a working mech. Nobody else would say slag like this right in front of the person they were insulting. It was like being an empurata victim standing at Senator Shockwave’s side all over again. The other Senators had taken vindictive pleasure in making snide comments about his missing head and hands while simultaneously ignoring his presence.

“A pity he didn’t sand them down before infection bubbled the metal. I’ve seen plague survivors with smoother plating.” Ligier seized Tarn’s chin to turn him this way and that. “The color’s terrible. He can’t tamper with the brand, so we’re stuck with that shade. Ugh.” A critical forefinger pinged off his mask. “He might have had a rugged profile if a closer look didn’t make him look like a reject from the smelterworks. What is he, a vehicle?” A prod to his shoulder treads earned a smudge of grit, and Ligier looked offended. “A hauler of some kind, reformatted into a tank? He’s not made for indoor work, I can tell you that. A warbuild at an art gallery would look less out of place than he does here.” Tarn refused to flinch away from the hands wandering down to push and pull at the cannons attached to his forearm. “What? Truly, this is in bad taste. Honestly, what does it say about the state of the world that Decepticons go around wearing their altmode weaponry ready to fire?” 

Yes, because in a magic world where everyone could afford post-war overhauls, Tarn could pay the medical fee for detachment. As it was, if he took his cannons off, his arm went numb in an hour and his weapons system ate precious fuel running readiness checks the second he reattached them. He’d settled for stripping them down as much as he could, but that didn’t meet Ligier’s standards. He got the feeling that not a lot did. Ligier reeked of old money. He’d probably never gone a day of his life without immediate access to health care for the tiniest nick and ding.

Tarn muted his vox box yet again. Patience, patience. His optics went to Jazz. Be good. Be patient. Or else.

Ligier tsked and straightened up, optics sliding away from Tarn’s mask with the practiced ease of someone who could look clear through anything he didn’t want to see. Definitely a Towers mech. If it was an ugly piece of reality, then polite society went out of its way to ignore it. Refusing to acknowledge that the trials and tribulations of the sublevels existed had worked out well for the rich upper classes. 

It…actually was a good reminder, one that Tarn needed. Ligier might look like a dainty speedster flitting down to the sublevels on a lark, but the risk of being recognized as Damus or Glitch was real. Surviving Senators might remember Shockwave’s students. Zeta and Sentinel Prime’s courtiers might recognize him as well. Tarn would have to tread lightly around Ligier and people like him.

Besides which, noblemechs’ ethereal appearances belied their ruthlessness. Their ‘civilized’ mannerisms meant they channeled their cruelty and power through politics, law, and order. The surviving Towers mechs had made their resentment of the Decepticons plain during the Senate’s first session, fighting for the maximum penalties on the defeated faction, and a noblemech had the clout to make a powerless Decepticon’s life absolutely miserable if he didn’t kowtow sufficiently. What Senate Enforcers did in the lower sublevels was only sanctioned crime, from Tarn’s experience, and police were easily bribed.

He sat very still and quiet under Ligier’s hands.

After wiping his contaminated fingertips free of Decepticon filth, Ligier turned his attention to Jazz, who’d evidently asked him to do the photos as a favor. “Nothing I can do will make him more suitable, but I believe some of the rough edges of this,” he waved at all of Tarn, mouth a thin line of distaste, “might be minimized in the proper lighting. Fetch a lamp we can use to cast light upward, about this tall,” he held his hand down, “and a filter of some kind. Pale blue, preferably. Yellow, if you have to. I doubt it something even I can pull off, but anything to make these **dreadful** colors warmer.” He gave another disdainful sniff, looking down his nose at the Decepticon. “He couldn’t possibly appear more barbaric, but perhaps if he **tried** for some element of culture, we might use him. If nothing else, his presence could give a positive spin to Trailbreaker’s rather uncouth nature. Whatever made someone like you think you could work here?”

Ah, a direct question at last. Such an opening hadn’t been seen since Iacon’s defenses fell. Tarn was well aware he was being tested, Jazz’s visor ever-watchful, but he picked his words like the weapons they were. “Evidence suggested that Swerve would hire anyone.”

For a second, the honeyed tone slipped past Ligier. The blue-and-white noblemech started to nod, satisfied that the subject of his mockery was cowed enough to agree with his superior viewpoint, but then he stopped short. A lifetime of trading barbs among his social equals must have kicked him in the back of the cortex.

The mask diminished the effect, but Tarn gave him his most earnest look of innocence. What? A dullard Decepticon from the sublevels wouldn’t imply _anything_. That required the intelligence to understand the snubbing, backbiting comments Ligier had been spouting, and Tarn was only a nobody mech slated for manual labor. 

Yellow optics narrowed into suspicious slits. Tarn blinked up at them. He had no doubt Ligier could prove a bolt in his side if riled, but a mech had to earn respect from his coworkers sooner rather than later. Calling him out this way could make an enemy of Ligier -- or an ally. Tarn sorely needed the latter.

Jazz plonked a lamp into the middle of the stare-down. “Will this work?”

Ligier glanced down at the lamp, then at the Decepticon. Tarn met his gaze. Steady, deliberate, and no longer pretending innocence, the tankformer inclined his head to him. One of Ligier’s optic ridges went up. That was either a challenge or a gesture of respect to an equal, and Tarn wasn’t going to tell him which. 

“This will do,” Ligier murmured, studying the bigger mech. 

Jazz looked at Tarn. He looked at Ligier. He wisely chose to get out of the way.

Venturing a stab of his own into the fray turned the photo shoot into a tiresome exercise in verbal banter barely this side of open warfare. It was like attending one of the Senate social events all over again. Ligier kept his distant, bored aura, but he brought out the sharpest of his well-honed, exquisitely sugared tones to use in slicing Tarn apart. Fencing with the noblemech took as much effort as a real fight, and Tarn emerged from the back room exhausted, worn down to the treads by the peculiar mental gymnastics required of polite Towers society. He’d learned _of_ noble culture from Shockwave, how to turn it to his own means when cornered by Senators, but he hadn’t had much practical experience.

Using what he’d learned made him feel like an ill-equipped peasant. He’d fended off some of the noblemech’s chilly repartees, but overall, Tarn had missed more than he’d deflected in the conversation. He’d lost the battle. The light smirk resting on Ligier’s lips had informed him of that, and after the photos were taken, the noblemech had flicked his fingers in contemptuous dismissal of the attempt to keep up.

“I’ll do what I can with this,” he’d said to Jazz. “Don’t expect much.” 

It was vastly frustrating in an oddly familiar way. Tarn had wanted to punch the mech’s face in every time the smug gearstick artfully paused to let him know he’d missed something important, but he’d felt the same way around Starscream. Shockwave had been worse. Shockwave had belonged to the upper classes. The former Senator could have slid the ground right out from under the noble’s tires. He’d known what to do and how to act. Tarn’s attempts to better himself, to be educated and learn the cultured mannerisms of high society, just couldn’t compare.

The scum floating on the backs of Cybertron’s working class could still effortlessly put him in his place, and Ligier had seemed to savor doing precisely that.

Being put down made him more determined to rise up. Tarn squared his shoulders against the exhaustion. Next time. Next time, Ligier wouldn’t win so easily.

“I think he likes you.” Jazz beamed up at him, irrepressibly amused. Tarn glowered down at him. “As much as he likes any Decepticon, but don’t take it personally. Most of us can’t get more than a daily greeting outta him. You’ve gotta be a paying customer to open **his** mouth.” The innuendo leered, but Jazz was just needling him. He had to be. Ligier wouldn’t really -- no. That mech was so top-shelf ladders were needed to reach speaking distance.

Tarn squinted one optic at the annoying Autobot escorting him to the exit. “He seemed to have no problem speaking with **you** ,” he said, accusation as much as observation.

Jazz shrugged as he unlocked the door so Tarn could leave. “Yeah, well, he makes an exception for me. I recruited him an’ all.” 

Ice shot down his backstruts. Jazz _could_ have meant recruitment for this job, but a show of hands for the number of mechs who believed that? None? 

No wonder Tarn hadn’t recognized Ligier by name. If he still had access to that kind of information, he’d bet the fuel in his tanks that the blue-and-white noblemech went by a different name when he wasn’t slumming as a host. It might not even be slumming. It could be an undercover assignment from his former, or not so former, commander. 

Tarn had walked into an Autobot Special Operations _nest_. 

Jazz flashed his dazzling smile. “See y’ tomorrow, Tarn.” 

In the last second before the door closed, all that remained visible against the dark of the club’s interior was that smile, lit by the neon street signs. Then that, too, vanished, and Tarn stood alone out on the street, back where he’d started the day. 

**[* * * * *]**

_[ **A/N:** Thank you, Vintage-Mechanics. Until the curtains rises next time, m’dears.]_


	5. Pt. 5

**Title:** White Lies  
 **Warning:** Yet another AU where the Decepticons didn’t win the war. There were no last stands. There were no martyrs or hidden rebel cells. There was only defeat and trying to live in the aftermath. Possible dubcon situations. Obviously, the D.J.D. reveal in MTMTE futzed everything in this fic up, so it was rewritten to fit canon. If you haven’t read the first four parts since the end of 2016, you should probably reread for the changes.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** More Than Meets The Eye AU  
 **Characters:** Decepticon Justice Division, Jazz, Swerve, and everybody who joins.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** There was a beautiful picture by FelixFellow, and then I had an idea. It mutated. TwistyRocks got me to write the first two parts, just to see what happened. Vintage-Mechanics got the third and fourth part. Hektorthegecko pushed me into the fifth part, thank you!

Due to the need to write poverty-level Cybertron, I had to make up monetary amounts less than a shanix.  
Shanix  
Hanix (half a shanix)  
Quanix (quarter shanix)  
Einix (eighth of a shanix)  
Nix (eight to an einix, sixteen to a quanix, 32 to a hanix, 64 to a shanix)

 

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Pt. 5: Two’s Company, Three’s a Crowd**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

“Even if I believed you could pull shanix out thin air by midweek, I’m not playing favorites. There’s no reason I should cover for you **again**. Who you think paid in to keep the accounts squared, the Prime? It’s me. Me. And I’m not doing it again,” his superintendant had sneered this morning, hours before Tarn headed to Off Track. “You can’t pay by the end of the day, then tough luck. Pack your stuff. Give the eviction crew any trouble, and they’ll kick your afts to the curb. Play nice, and maybe they’ll let you take some things when they pitch you out the door.” 

The first three responses queued up in his vox box were inappropriate. Too rude, too confrontational, too cutting. Tarn swallowed their sharp edges and reached instead for a reasonable tone of voice. It came out coaxing, nearly pleading. “I have a job interview **tonight**. You know I won’t have anything by tomorrow!” Every job he’d had, filling out forms and getting on the schedule took half the first week -- if he got the job at all. “But I’ll be employed again. I’ll have a paycheck on payday, and I’ll give you it all. Whatever I make the first pay period is yours.” 

Piggish greed lit Trip-Up’s jaded optics. “Yeah? How much that going to be?”

“Ah. I am…uncertain of the pay as of yet.” Not an encouraging start to negotiations. The D.J.D. had no savings left to offer as down payment for the thinly veiled bribe Trip-Up called a late fee. 

Tarn’s hesitation didn’t inspire confidence. Suspicion filled Trip-Up’s voice. “You don’t know. Uh-huh. Where’s the interview at?”

“Ah. Um.” A superintendant’s flat was twice the size of a regular apartment, but Tarn knew the nearest neighbors overheard anytime a renter knocked. Standing out in the hall wasn’t an ideal place to announce an interview at Off Track. If the place was anything like he suspected, working there would open him up to propositions or worse based on nothing but rumor and speculation. He’d have to deal with the fallout eventually, but not right now. He didn’t dare. Trip-Up was no better than he had to be, and Tarn knew how petty power could be abused.

What lengths would he go to protect his unit? How far was too far?

Greed cooled to disinterest while he hesitated. Trip-Up pushed off the doorway he’d been leaning against. “Alright, no. I’m not a bettin’ mech. I broke my own rule the other week,” his glare warned not to bring up how many weeks he’d taken an under-the-table kickback to bend the rules, “but enough’s enough. You make rent, or you’re out. But I’m a nice guy.” He smirked. “I’ll send the eviction notice to the boss at midnight. He usually doesn’t sign official stuff after business hours, so that’s your chance to get the job and some solid numbers by morning. Who knows? You might have more luck convincing him to give you an extension.”

Rage choked Tarn. Static stuttered his thoughts as the suppression chip broke up his immediate reaction, and he yanked himself up short. No. No, he couldn’t destroy this infuriating, frustrating excuse for a Cybertronian. The local Law Enforcer station would actually investigate if he murdered an Autobot. His unit couldn’t afford the attention. 

Plus, he needed any chance possible, even a backhanded mockery of one.

Fresh humiliation stung his already sore ego and thickened his voice. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

The door closed in his face. He preferred its blank surface to Trip-Up’s laughter. 

He pushed bruised pride aside as he turned to leave. Fear flooded in to replace it. He’d grown used to ignoring its bitter metallic taste since the end of the war, but it flavored his thoughts. 

It wasn’t a question anymore what he’d do to protect his unit. The question was what price they’d pay if he didn’t. 

Eviction would throw his mechs back out onto the street recharging wherever they could find shelter or paying high fees every night for a motel room. They could apply for another government-subsidized flat further down in the sublevels, but going back down would add an hour to Helex and Tesarus’ commute, make it harder for Kaon to job-hunt, and cause Vos to miss another teaching module during the move. They’d be right back where they’d started, only poorer and more broken. 

And harboring more doubts in their failed leaders, both Lord Megatron and Tarn himself. He didn’t know if Kaon could take another disappointment, and he knew the blind mech didn’t hold much faith in him anymore. Not since the Pet, and unemployment, and the depression of submitting job application after futile job application no one ever called back on. 

Tarn headed toward the tower exit, suppressing the urge to transform. He couldn’t afford to waste the energy.

He hadn’t transformed for a long time. The D.J.D. hadn’t had the money for more than the basics since moving up to sublevel 15. They’d sacrificed so much to move up-level. They’d leveraged Tarn’s call center job, Kaon’s electrician work, and the titans’ recycling shifts to create an illusion of financial stability on their flat application, but the jobs hadn’t lasted. Their pooled savings had run out. 

The building superintendant should have reported their first late payment as a _missed_ payment, but Trip-Up had given them a one-time extension when promised a ‘late fee.’ The bribe had made paying rent the next week more difficult, but the D.J.D. had managed it once. Then twice. And again, until today.

Tarn would wager Trip-Up refused another rent extension out of fear he might be caught taking a bribe. Supers were fired for less than that in this block. The block representative here followed the _rules_. Yes, the rules were rigged, but paying lip service to government regulations kept flagrant abuse of power to a minimum. A semi-decent block rep kept greedy conmechs like Trip-Up on a leash. 

The D.J.D. had lived far enough down in the sublevels to know all about the pettiness and profiteering corrupt block reps and supers turned on residents. The standards might be low here, but at least they existed. Unlike the better-regulated up-level housing blocks, government housing below sublevel 15 consisted of several thousand occupants crammed into ramshackle towers stacked together inside a city block. They resembled miniature cities on the inside, each block rife with people running repair shops, recycling centers, convenience stores, and less savory sales out of their flats, operating on a cash-only basis, tax and license free until someone in charge got greedy and shut them down for not paying enough in bribes. Two days later, an identical lowkey shop would open on another floor in the tower next door, and desperate customers would slip in, unable to afford better products or healthcare outside the block, or even willing to pay more for untraceable goods and services. 

It wasn’t legal, but the Decepticons filling Iacon’s lower sublevels couldn’t risk calling the Enforcers for anything less than a murder. The cops didn’t reliably show up unless there was money or media attention involved, anyway. Instead, the towers hired security wardens to police everything in-house, handling noise violations to armed robberies. In turn, the wardens often assembled a personal gang of thugs to help keep the peace and/or terrorize the residents into paying ‘protection.’ Whoever hired the wardens had his own private army and therefore, unsurprisingly, ruled the block by force as much as by position. 

Like a fort commander, block representatives were political figures as much as residential managers, appointed by the city mayor to supervise the whole block. Individual tower superintendants and security wardens reported up the chain of command to the block rep. He held ultimate control over the people allowed to move in, and when they were evicted. 

Anyone who’d spent time stationed in the garrison of an isolated outpost found the whole situation oddly familiar.

Rumor had it that Tarn’s block rep had once been an Enforcer. A mechaforensics detective, some said, though Tarn had also heard he’d been parked behind a desk most of the time. Tarn knew he’d run the Autobot Security Services in Kaon during the height of the illegal gladiatorial matches, and he’d continued to fight against Lord Megatron’s Cause under Zeta Prime. Decepticon Intelligence had lost track of him after Optimus Prime took up the Matrix. Whispered gossip said the mech had deserted at that point, attempting to flee off-planet as a neutral to avoid the war. While Tarn didn’t usually believe unfounded rumor, the facts fit what he did know. Lingering resentment or contempt from the Autobots in power certainly did no one any favors on post-war Cybertron, and it explained why the mech hadn’t returned to law enforcement. 

Regardless of rumor, he wore the Autobot brand. It’d obviously been enough to earn him appointment to a position within Iacon’s city structure. Supervising the government-subsidized housing block on sublevel 15 could be his stepping stone to greater political ambitions, or maybe a gateway to his former job. Either way, common sense had kept the D.J.D. very, very far away. Nothing good came of associating with past Autobots and current political hopefuls. 

Especially one who had once met Tarn. Tarn been Damus, then, an empurata victim going by the name Glitch, but still. Tarn remembered him as a stickler for details, and, later, a prominent Autobot officer associated with the Primes. Best to avoid him altogether.

By the end of the night, Tarn was out of other options. Trip-Up had sent in the eviction form at midnight. Desperate times called for desperate measures. 

Personal wireless connections were expensive, so Tarn used the free communications network access at the public transit station. It was so early in the morning it still qualified as night, but he could leave a message on the block rep’s voicemail. Tarn hoped the mech’s secretary checked for voice messages before the boss came in for the day. He was out of luck if resident calls were automatically screened out. 

The comline rang. Tarn reset his vox box to lower it to his calmest, most persuasive pitch, a pitch that said without words that he knew what he was doing, he was a trustworthy, dependable mech, and he had everything under control. It had served him well in the Grindcore soothing prisoners as he shut them into the smelter, and equally well on cranky customers at the call center. He hoped it worked now.

A sharp *ping!* signaled voicemail picking up, and the flat, mechanical voice of an automated system said, “This is Prowl.”

Just a meeting. If he could get his block rep into a meeting, Tarn was certain he could persuade him to not sign the eviction. His message had to be perfect. Tone, wording, and delivery had to come together into a message that conveyed sincerity without delivering all the information upfront. Tarn knew how to draw people in. Give the highlights, significant but unsatisfying tidbits that tickled curiosity by hinting at the reward of more important, more _interesting_ details. Layer the meeting with overtones of a big reveal. Confiding in people made them feel important and part of what was happening. Once they were invested, they belonged to him. 

It sure was taking a long time to reach the beep. Voicemail normally had a beep to indicate the message could be left, right? He could hear the faint static common to public access networks, but no beep. He waited, becoming more uneasy as the silence stretched out. How odd.

Oh. Oh no.

Dread iced the bottom of his tanks. No automated voice telling him to leave a message. No beep. Just a curt answer, like a busy, important mech answering his comlink in the extremely early hours of the morning.

Feeling suddenly small, Tarn ventured, “Hello?” 

“Prank calling is a prosecutable offense, with a fine of up to forty shanix,” Prowl said in that same flat voice. Tarn’s horrified guess had been correct, and _he was going to be responsible for his unit’s eviction._

No time for fancy words or smooth delivery; the apology came out so hasty it stumbled over itself. “My apologies, I meant, I didn’t, it wasn’t my intention to, ah, your pardon. Excuse me a moment.” Tarn cut his microphone and forced a full in-vent, pulling air in against the frantic whir of his fans. Flaming hot shame chased the ice through his lines in a dizzying rush, and it put him completely off-balance. He had to collect himself. Retreat and regroup, the defensive tactics of social warfare. 

He could salvage this. Tonight he’d faced off against Jazz, survived Swerve’s chatter, fenced words with Ligier, and still managed to get a job. As a host in the bastard nightclub spawn of a brothel and Autobot Special Operations, which was nothing to be proud of, but a conversation with his block rep didn’t compare to the night he’d had so far. 

Besides, Prowl hadn’t hung up. That had to be a good sign.

Tarn didn’t remember shutting off his optics, but he had to blink the shutters open as he exhaled. Squaring his shoulders, he turned the mic back on. “I’m truly sorry for that. I…” Admitting his idiocy out loud roasted his pride, but he needed to explain. “I assumed you would not be in your office as of yet and was waiting to leave a message. I didn’t mean to seem rude. I assure you that I’m no prank caller, although I understand why you might think so. That was incredibly foolish of me.” There, a bit of self-effacement. It should trigger a polite assurance of forgiveness, and they could restart the conversation as if Tarn hadn’t screwed up.

For a long moment, he didn’t think it worked. Static and silence filled the open comline. An overheat warning popped up in Tarn’s HUD.

Armor scraped as Prowl shifted on the other end of the comline. “Fine.” 

Tarn blinked. That wasn’t the response he’d expected. 

“I assume you called me for a reason.” 

Well, it wasn’t the most gracious of openings, but he’d take what he could get. “Uh, yes. Yes.” He shook himself, kicking his stalled fans back online. Showtime. 

After blurting that mess of an apology in his natural voice, the deep pitch he’d intended to use seemed ridiculous. Tarn settled for earnest honesty. “This is Tarn from Tower 4, Flat 113. I apologize for the hour, but my superintendant, Trip-Up, told me he would forward an eviction request to you based on nonpayment of rent. I want you to know that this was not an intentional violation of our rental contract. We did **not** attempt to dodge paying rent. There was simply an emergency that limited our finances this week, and we were in contact with Trip-Up as soon as we knew we’d be late. We’re currently between paydays -- but we **will** be able to pay by midweek, and we won’t be late again. Three of us are employed. In fact, I’m calling to tell you I officially have the job I interviewed for tonight, and I’d like to meet with you to discuss a payment schedule for this week based on the nightly pay of my new position.”

Now, the proper response to that teaser would be to ask what the job was and pay rate.

“If rent payment is late, you’ve broken the rental contract and are subject to eviction the following day. There are no exceptions.”

Frag. Right. How had Tarn forgotten that Prowl wasn’t just detail-oriented, he was also a rule-monger? “Surely other renters have had adjusted payment schedules! We want to pay the full amount, we just need until payday.” Three days from now, but he could pay off a fraction of the debt each night. It’d show commitment.

A trace of emotion entered Prowl’s voice. Unfortunately, it was impatience. “There are no exceptions made in my block. I don’t care what rent collection was like on, hm,” Tarn could almost _hear_ him look up the D.J.D.’s flat application, “sublevels 19 and 23. You signed the contract for this block, and there is no excuse to have not read it before signing. Rent payments are to be made on time and in full.” The impatience disappeared back into detachment. “Perhaps you should negotiate for a monthly schedule in your next contract. It will give you more paydays within the rental period.”

That hit a tender spot. A monthly schedule cost less than paying rent weekly, but it required a larger deposit up front. A deposit week-to-week renters couldn’t save up for due to paying higher rent. 

Frustration tensed Tarn’s treads as his engine growled. He steadied his voice and said, “We were unable to afford the deposit at the time we moved in.” 

“It’s how the contracts are set up,” Prowl agreed. Dispassionate though he sounded, Tarn could hear the unspoken, _’The inherent unfairness is not my problem.’_ “It serves a purpose. Weekly rent schedules minimize rent revenue loss by clearing flats in a timely manner.” _’Of people who can no longer meet the deadline. Like you.’_

Tarn remembered Prowl being a lot less callous. Justice was in the optics of the ones making the rules, not the powerless masses ruled by them, but Prowl no longer seemed to care so long as it served his purposes. It didn’t matter to him that Tarn _would_ be able to pay, only that he _currently_ didn’t have the money. The rules didn’t allow for pity, and they didn’t bend.

It made a strict, black-and-white kind of sense, but it didn’t allow for the slightest mercy. Tarn never thought he’d miss corruption, but at least Trip-Up’s greed had been a crack in law and order. Prowl didn’t had that flaw. Tarn didn’t need to meet with him to tell asking for an extension in person would be a waste of time.

Arguing would do nothing but degrade him. “I see. A meeting would serve no purpose, then. I apologize for disturbing you.”

Prowl made a vague affirming noise, a sort of hum, and said, “I suggest you spend the rest of your morning preparing to move. The eviction crew will be there by noon.” With that, he hung up.

At this hour of the morning, few people were at the transit station. All of them turned to stare at him the second Prowl was off the line. Tarn had picked a secluded corner to call from, but turning further into it didn’t hide his fury. Gears screamed harsh resistance against lockdown. The unique whine of a strained T-cog shrilled even higher. His fists clenched on the bag of energon he carried, clutching it like talisman against temptation. 

One transformation, a quick switch to his tankmode and back, and sweet satisfaction would kill the itch. Just once.

No. It was a lie. He knew it wasn’t true. Transforming gave him temporary satisfaction, a giddy feel-good rush of a high that felt good for ten seconds and wouldn’t change Prowl’s mind. ‘Just one time’ would lead to another surrender, easier because scratching the junkie itch deluded him into believing it solved his problems, but it _didn’t_. Succumbing made addiction worse, he _knew_ that. 

His treads twitched, and metal clicked as his armor shifted in the first stages of transformation. He shut off his optics and forced it into reverse. Vos had crammed scientific studies into his thick helm until Tarn internalized the results. If the rest of the D.J.D. had to stage another intervention for his morphing addiction, he’d spontaneously combust out of sheer shame. Or kill someone. He didn’t know which, but either way he never wanted to sit through it again.

The instinctive twitch to transform took four minutes to stop. He stood with his head down for a minute longer to make certain he had it tamped down. When he opened his vents again, the slats rasped as though they’d rusted shut. His fans turned reluctantly, pinpricks of activation as he let go of lockdown one program at a time. The cool air felt almost painful. 

He _hated_ losing control. 

No, scratch that. He hated not _being_ in control.

So much for rising up. It was all he could do these days to stay on his feet. Some Decepticon _he_ was. 

Responsibility prodded him onward. Tarn sighed and dialed another communication frequency. He didn’t know if anyone had waited up by the tower lobby’s free network connection after it became clear he wasn’t coming back last night, but he could still leave a message. 

Kaon picked up immediately. “Tarn! Tesarus got a third shift for halfpay and we can have it here by shift-end -- ”

“The eviction crew will be there by noon,” Tarn interrupted him. The night settled on his shoulders out of nowhere. Weary depression made its own gravity dragging down his spark. “Trip-Up wouldn’t give us another extension, and our block rep’s a fragging coldsparked drone. Use the money to rent a trailer to load our things onto.” A week guarding a trailer beat having to buy basic hab suite furniture all over again. He didn’t need to transform to pull it to the nearest public library, and he and Kaon could recharge on or under it until close. As long as Vos was actually inside studying, the Enforcers wouldn’t roust them for loitering.

“Oh.” Kaon deflated. The eager hope left his voice, and his disappointment punched Tarn straight in the chest. 

Tarn winced as if he could curl up around his failure, make it and himself disappear, offer something, _anything_ to stop the inevitable. 

The best he could do was change the subject. “How did Tesarus…three shifts in a row’s illegal.” The recycling center didn’t work its employees to death.

“One of the other grinders has to pick someone up at the spaceport, so he’s paying Tesarus cash to clock in as him,” Kaon said dully.

Fear skipped Tarn’s fuel pump. “They’ll fire him if they catch him doing that!” Impersonating another employee counted as falsifying records!

“It’s an emergency. It **was** ,” Kaon corrected himself, and Tarn flinched, “an emergency. I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

“It matters,” Tarn said. It was supposed to be assurance, but he sounded as helpless as he felt. 

He’d done everything he could, done everything _right_ , but it still wasn’t enough. He’d failed Kaon. He’d failed the whole unit, but the sullen resentment leaching into Kaon’s voice hurt the most. Everything he said sounded like an accusation to Tarn’s guilt-ridden audios.

“Did you get the job?” 

Another early commuter walked onto the transit platform. Tarn saw him move out of the corner of his optic and turned his face toward the wall. Right now, he needed even that poor privacy. “I…yes. I did. And it’s paid by the night, starting tonight. Depending on how much I make, we might be able to start applying for a flat before the recycling center’s payday. I’ll take as many nights as they’ll let me.” His knuckles creaked as he tightened his grip on the bag of energon, but he tried to lighten his tone to something less defeated. “We don’t have to worry about fuel today. My employer paid me in energon for last night, and he’s,” his tanks twisted, “generous. It’s good quality and cheaper than what we’ve been buying.” 

“That’s nice. I guess.”

Where was a hole to crawl into when he needed it? “Kaon…”

Kaon reset his vox box to cut him off. “Better than nothing, anyway. What’s the job?”

Tarn freed one hand to press against the wall as his spark ached, guilt compressing it into a solid lump in his chest. This. This was why he’d have done anything Swerve or Trip-Up or Jazz wanted. Forget an officer’s duty of care; the personal responsibility for failure weighed as much as the moon. His unit depended on him how he’d depended on Lord Megatron, and he’d _failed_. The crushing letdown stole his breath. If Kaon felt this way about him, if Vos looked at him with nothing but disappointment, if Helex and Tesarus gave him an exhausted glance in passing because they’d worked their struts to the breaking point for a plan that fell through, then what should Tarn feel about --

He couldn’t think about it. He wouldn’t be able to take it if he followed that thought to the end.

“Waitstaff,” he murmured, optics off and expression pained behind his mask. “I’ll be working in a bar, of sorts. More of a night club. As waitstaff. I'm...expected to talk with the customers. Entertain them. Encourage them to drink more."

Kaon was quiet for a moment. “Huh. At least **you’ll** be safe at night.”

Tarn shot straight and stiff, optics popped wide in shocked anger so violent he’d have killed Kaon if the mech had been standing in front of him. There was something under the burn he didn’t dare think about too closely, but outright electrocution would have hurt less. “You **dare**?! Is that why you think I went through this? **My** safety?!“ Every commuter on the platform scattered as his engine _roared_ , the snarl of an assault tank losing his temper bringing out survival instinct honed on battlefields across Cybertron.

Self-preservation still trumped depression. “I didn’t mean it that way!” Kaon yelped. “I meant -- I meant you’ll be safe at night, but that’s a good thing, sir! Tarn, really, it’s good! It’s one less person to stand watch, but it’s one less to stand watch over, and I only meant that the rest of us won’t have to worry about you when you’re at work. Listen, that’s all I meant!”

“Is it?” Tarn started to say something snide about a lack of gratitude, but he snapped his mouth shut. Only a guilt-tripping cogsucker would say such things. His burnt, damaged pride refused to beg for acknowledgement. He was doing what he could because it was his _duty_ , not because he wanted praise. He needed respect, not empty flattery.

How unrealistic. Why should his unit respect him when he didn’t respect himself?

His engine ground unhealthily, sticking between gears as it downshifted to neutral. There _was_ one more thing he could try. Why hadn’t he..? Tarn shut off his optics and slumped. No, he knew why. He didn’t want to do it, but it was too late for that. 

“Nevermind, Kaon. Send Vos to pick up Tesarus’ pay at shift-end. Pack everything you can, and rent a trailer.”

Kaon hesitated on the other end of the comline. This wasn’t the time to question his commander’s orders, but the Justice Division had been more than a unit even before the war ended. “Where will you be?” 

Tarn heard his concern and assumed Kaon needed him to pull the trailer. Being of some use to his unit was cold comfort. “I have to make a call. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“But…right. Yessir.”

He stepped out of the corner at last, deliberately avoiding the curious, fearful stares from the other commuters. They had clustered at the far end of the platform like prey spotting a predator. A Decepticon his size raising his voice in public this far up in the sublevels probably scared normal civilians into calling for Enforcers instead of escalating to a mob. Good thing it was so early, or the crowd would be bigger and more likely to respond with force. He tucked himself down on a bench on the far end of the platform to make them feel safer.

Then he made the call.

He didn’t have the private number he needed, but the club had a hotline for reservations and employees. It picked up after two rings. A positively sultry voice purred, “Thank you for calling Off Track, Iacon’s premier host club. How may I **help** you?”

As far as distractions went, being propositioned via a greeting worked fairly well. He could learn a thing or two on how to _use_ a voice from this mech. “I. This is Tarn?” Hopefully the other employees knew who he was by now. “I need to talk to Jazz if he’s still there.”

The sensual purr vanished into a normal voice, albeit one professionally trained. “Tarn! The ‘Con, right? Hello.” The guy seemed friendly, but a voice like his didn’t say anything he didn’t intend it to. Tarn didn’t trust that friendliness one bit. “Yeah, he’s still hanging out. He’s helping us pry Trailbreaker off the ceiling.”

He wasn’t going to ask. Except, “How -- “

“Magnawheels. I’ll go get Jazz. Please hold.”

The hold music wasn’t obnoxious, but Tarn barely heard it through his thoughts. Trailbreaker was proof that Primus didn’t exist. Any creationist claiming intelligent design had to explain to Tarn why that engex-guzzling idiot had magnetized wheels, and he couldn’t see that happening. What had happened to the talented outlier Senator Shockwave had taken into the Academy before the war? He’d distinguished himself fighting against the Decepticons, Tarn knew, but now he evidently spent his nights drinking heavily until he crashed. He needed help.

It was strange the Autobots treated their veterans no kinder than they treated Decepticons.

“Are you alright?”

Tarn’s head whipped around. “Excuse me?”

The slender orange mech stepped back when abruptly confronted by a large purple Decepticon emblem-mask, but he otherwise stood his ground. “No, excuse me. I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

Tarn didn’t quite know how to respond to the absurdity of such an obvious noncombatant apologizing for ‘startling’ a hulking warframe, but he’d distracted himself with an inane train of thought enough to be surprised. He could see why he seemed jittery. Add to that his behavior during the previous two calls, and perhaps it was understandable that a random -- his optics flicked to the mech’s chest -- Autobot, of course it’d be an Autobot, would be concerned. Although he did look vaguely familiar, somehow. Should Tarn know him?

The mech kept looking at him, waiting for a response. When Tarn didn’t say anything, he repeated himself. “Are you alright?”

Alright?

Everything that had gone wrong in the last week alone flew through Tarn’s mind in a parade of frustration, disappointment, and humiliation. Worry for Tesarus endlessly circled his mind. Guilt and frustration riddled his brain module like an advanced neurological disease. Helpless anger hung in a haze over the entire disorganized mess. He’d lost track of the difference between the suppression chip’s static and his own deteriorating self-discipline.

He’d failed his unit. He’d failed the Decepticon Cause. He’d failed his Lord.

His Lord had failed him. 

And the hold music played on.

“I’m fine,” he said at last. Good manners dictated a polite dismissal, as tempting as it was to shout at the meddling busybody to frag off. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m in the middle of a call right now.” 

“Pardon my rudeness, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll leave you be.” Round spectacles lingered on him, but the mech could take a hint. Nodding his head in an abbreviated, old-fashioned bow, he walked away down the platform.

Tarn watched him go. The other commuters watched him, too, and they relaxed, gradually wandering out of the tight group they’d bunched into. The scary Decepticon in their midst hadn’t snapped and killed the harmless civvie. They were safe. 

He turned his helm away, hating the flash of gratitude he felt. It took courage to disarm a potentially dangerous situation, but compassion to risk that danger in order to help someone. 

“Y’ello?” drawled across the forgotten comline, and Tarn jumped for the second time in two minutes. 

“Jazz?”

“Speakin’. Blaster said y’needed a word?” Jazz’s accent had thickened since Tarn had left, slowing to a lazy, casual slur.

It didn’t put Tarn at ease. He took a deep breath and sternly shoved his tattered pride aside. “I need a favor.” Oh, it hurt to say that.

Not as much as Jazz’s chuckle. “Suuuuuure y’do. Already? That was fast.”

This was exactly what he’d expected, calling this mech, and hot embarrassment swept him helm to feet. Tarn accepted it as his due and braced for worse. “Please, Jazz. I need you to talk to my block representative. Rent was due yesterday, and he won’t grant an extension. We -- I’ll be evicted at noon.” He paused, but Jazz didn’t comment. “I only need three days to make rent.” He thought of Tesarus working through the night shift. “Two days. Two days, and we -- I can make rent. We’re,” he gritted his teeth and corrected himself _again_ , “ **I’m** willing to pay a late fee. Whatever he feels necessary as payment for an extension. He just won’t **listen** to me.”

“T’you,” Jazz repeated, catching the significance. “Y’think he’ll listen t’ little ol’ me?”

“You’re my manager,” for lack of a better job title, “and…you were an Autobot officer,” Tarn said carefully. Tactfully. He wasn’t going to say _’You’re the Head of Autobot SpecOps’_ out loud, but they both knew what he meant. He wasn’t above using his employer to manipulate Prowl. “He may trust your word where he won’t take mine.”

“Heh. I ain’t **that** shiny.” Air whooshed over the line as Jazz puffed a sigh. “But I get what y’mean. Dunno what it’ll do, but I s’pose I can try. Who’s your block rep?”

So Jazz didn’t know every detail of his life? That was kind of reassuring. 

Tarn told him.

The other end of the line went very quiet.

When Jazz spoke, the mellow accent evaporated. “Wait, hold up. **Prowl** of Petrex is your **block rep**.” It wasn’t a question. “That wasn’t a question.” Well, that explained it. “I’m just repeating it because **what the frag, mech**? Did that -- ohhhh, he didn’t.” Jazz hissed like an offended felinoid as he came to some conclusion, and a chill rattled Tarn’s cannons. He didn’t think the saboteur was talking about Prowl anymore. “He did. He knows where you live. He set this up. That manipulative grease smear. What’s he plotting? He trying to set us against each other?” Jazz demanded, iron hard and menacing.

The demand all but shook an answer out of Tarn. “I-I don’t know. I didn’t know you knew each other!” Decepticon Intelligence files on Jazz had been full of conflicting mishmashed entries with a history of hidden hyperlinks seeded with viruses. He didn’t remember anything referring to Prowl in them!

“The frag you say! Whatever. I’ll find out. Nobody keeps secrets from me.” 

Tarn’s fuel pump dropped to his ankles and started hammering. Threat assessment and target acquisition both activated, confused signals bright in his HUD as the suppression chip filled his head with white noise. 

Jazz didn’t pause to elaborate on how exactly he’d get his answers, too busy fuming. “I know who’s behind this. Swear to Warrior’s Gate, I’m gonna rip his dock door right off if that’s what it takes to get a straight answer outta him. Slagging **Pit** do I have some plug-huggin’ calls to make today.”

Red optics widened. He needed to warn Soundwave what a slagstorm was headed his way.

“Don’t think I won’t know if you warn him,” Jazz said as if he could read minds. Decepticon loyalty slammed up against new debts owed, and Tarn froze like a frightened petrorabbit. “You worry ‘bout you, and I’ll handle everything else.” Jazz mumbled something low and peeved, then _tsk_ ed. “Slag, it had to be Prowl, didn’t it? I got no clue if calling’s gonna help you out. Prowl don’t tolerate frag-all when it comes to breaking rules, and he’s always got his own plans in the works.” He fell silent for a moment. “This’s all gonna depend on how much bin-head told him. He **hates** being left outta the loop.”

Tarn hated being a pawn in their game. Soundwave had given him the job tip for his own reasons, it seemed, and set him up to be caught between these two. The more Tarn thought about it, the less obliged he felt to warn him Jazz was on the hunt.

Jazz made an exasperated razzing sound for no discernible reason. “He’s gonna want to know why you got me on your side. This’s gonna take some fast talking. Mmm. Hmm? Mm. Hmph. Think I can -- eh, maybe. Worth a try. I might owe **you** one for this, tank’Con.”

The grudging admission should have been a relief, one less debt on the pile, but the Autobot’s lack of confidence filled Tarn with dread. “Just stop the eviction. Please.”

“I’ll try. Head to Prowl’s office. All else fails and he turns you away, there’s always the alley out back here. Trailbreaker swears by it.”

He winced at the idea of his unit recharging in the alley. They’d see where he worked, now. Worse, he might end up recharging beside Trailbreaker, and Tarn honestly thought he’d rather die. “Ah…I don’t believe it wise to take recommendations on sleeping accommodations from a mech I last saw so fendered he propositioned a wall.” And apparently went on to magnetize himself to the ceiling.

Jazz laughed. “Hey, don’t knock the wall. It’s supported ‘Breaker through some real slag nights.” 

On the one hand, an amused Jazz likely meant good results. On the other hand, Tarn didn’t enjoy jokes at his expense. He especially didn’t enjoy jokes with the wellbeing of his unit on the line.

Embarrassed anger balanced against his complete lack of other options. It was a feeling he should probably get used to. “I would prefer not to find out how comfortable the alley is,” he said stiffly.

“That’s the plan.” The laughter stopped. Suddenly serious, Jazz said, “Look, I didn’t say it’d be dignified, but it’s there, and the bouncers do rounds at night to keep anyone from rolling customers. I ain’t saying you move in permanently, but it’s better than the homeless shelters down-level,” he said as though he knew what they were like. 

Unpleasant memories surfaced, and Tarn shuddered. Sleeping in mixed company didn’t seem so terrible now that he thought about it.

He shook away the past and determinedly focused on something else. “How do you know Prowl?” Maybe he could use the information if he made it as far as a meeting. 

Jazz snickered. It wasn’t a nice sound. “How do I know him? Him? What, you don’t know?”

“Would I be asking if I did?” Ignorance left a sour taste in his mouth.

Jazz just snickered again. “We worked together during the war, right up until he took off into the sunset. It’s too bad he did, ‘cause he was this close, **this close** ,” Tarn could picture him pinching his fingers together, “to taking over my job and bein’ the boss.”

The sour taste became pure, metallic fear that flooded every corner of Tarn’s mouth. A faint, distressed whine came from deep in his engine. 

“And now he’s your block rep. Mech, that’s almost enough to make me feel sorry for you.”

 

**[* * * * *]**

 

_[ **A/N:** Thank you, Hektorthegecko. Thanks to Lizbettywrites as well for reading through and giving me feedback. Until the curtains rises next time, m’dears.]_


End file.
